I am a snob.

I can't help it though! It's Arizona's fault. Living in a place where you are smarter, thinner and more worldly than 99 percent of the populace, you can hardly help but feel vastly superior.

...

Man. I am a snob.

So I walk over the lakeside cafe next door and the waiter starts chatting me up.

"Yes! I am still a cute girl! Skeevy underaged waiters hitting on me proves it!" I think.

...

Then I think: "The fact that I am excited by the fact that a skeevy underaged waiter is hitting on me automatically disqualifies me from the cute girl category."

I mention that I work next door.

"Oh, at the hairdresser's?" he asks eagerly.

"Excuse me, the hairdresser's?" I think indignantly. Which doesn't prevent me from thinking: "Although, I have to admit, my hair is pretty cute!"

"Uh, no. The magazine," I tell him.

Don't worry! I was nice. And I got a free Coke out of it. Finally: Cosmic reassurance that being nice has some kind of reward other than people taking advantage of you and trampling your goodwill into cynical little smithereens. It's like someone up there's saying: "Be nice, you might get something out of it."

Hey you up there, I hear your words loud and clear! I will humbly attempt to live my life in accordance with your guidance!

Even if I am a snob.

It's not that I think I'm better than you. I'm just insulted that not everyone immediately recognizes the shining light of my bright future and immense inner potential.