and thinking of the sadness of strangers.

I remember once a while back, I was working at my lab bench listening to music. Then the playlist ended and I became aware of a conversation in the next room.

Some coworkers of mine had been dumpster diving earlier that day and were discussing their finds. What had piqued my interest was that they had found somebody's discarded journal and were reading at length for enjoyment.

Brief snippets heard were things along the lines of "I don't think (s)he knows I exist," "I'm depressed and nobody cares," and other sad lonely musings of some wangsty lovelorn bastard. Honestly, it was a rather sad and pathetic collection of thoughts (not unlike the unpublished, earlier works of mine which are safely under lock and fire).

I'm a little torn as to how I feel about this. On one hand, this journal was clearly deserving of mockery and scorn. On the other hand, this was something that the author clearly was not keen on sharing (at least in the form it was written down).

Supposing I were say on this forum "I've always had a deep seated love for My Little Ponies," and I were to be roundly mocked for this, it would upset me, but I deserve it, for putting it out there in the public.

But for whatever reason, this person had decided to trash this journal and these thoughts, clearly intending on having a reader soley of him/herself. Yet we (and I include myself because I chose to continue to listen in) feel it necessary to be voyeurs in a place where we don't belong. Who isn't tempted to read somebody else's diary, rummage through their medicine cabinets, or sift through the sock drawers?

Sure the thoughts of this particular person were trite and pathetic, but they were (presumedly) sincere. When we laugh, is it because we recognize a little bit of our own crazy insecurities inside? Or are we truly bastards?

Also, the Unknown Gauchos would be an amazing band name.