As a little girl, I was taught to never judge a book by its
cover, to always focus on what was inside someone. Certainly my mother would
never have fallen in love with my father if she’d focused on his appearance as
opposed to his character, his personality, his soul.
This did get me a label of a weirdo, as I would treat
everyone with respect (until they proved that they didn’t deserve it). Speaking
with the homeless is ‘weird’, apparently. Didn’t feel weird I met Second Street
Sally.
Right up until I found out some books have accurate covers.
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