I had narrated the story of how some people thought it was below them to talk courteously to the baristas at a coffeeshop a while ago. But that, perhaps, isn’t the only pertinent question. The question is, do we treat everyone like they’re beneath us if our work is in danger of being incomplete? If so, why is it that we think of ourselves as some sort of a God whose birth right it is to invade other people’s privacy and feel entitled to anything and everything?
The Melodramatic Bookworm 