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Sprung from a private conversation, a general observation about betrayal, or feeling betrayed: I think what offends me about life's little indiscretions and disregards is their operational smallness, their very pettiness. That ordinary slights and insults make such effective slings and arrows is an unflattering commentary on the human condition. I'm probably approaching it at the wrong angle, in my robotic way, but that's how I see it. At least on a sun-stunned afternoon in March (feels like May).

Sometimes it seems as though all our big hurts arrive at us by small degrees. Maybe it's just me.