I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Coyoacan. There's a group of kids sitting at the table next to me. They are loud and full of themselves. They are young and clean and wearing something that passes for the height of fashion in their social circles. None of the colors are faded. All the whites are bleached. The shoes are new. Their hair is styled. Their skin is whiter than most Mexicans. They are taller and leaner and smarter... And they yell at the servers for more of whatever they want.
I hate them.
To me they look ridiculous, insecure. They laugh at stupidities. They talk exuberantly about food they ordered in Miami. And about how much this same meal would cost in London. About where in Europe they lived. And for how long. They talk to the help like the help. And look to each other for approval.
I don't know why, exactly, I hate them. They are easy to hate. For obvious reasons. Who likes people like this? Only themselves. But I think there is a slightly more interesting way for me to think about them... They are me. Or they are the me that almost was – rich, entitled, private-schooled Mexican elites. I wonder if I had been that me, If I would hate myself as much as I hate myself now. I doubt it. Maybe what I feel is envy for their total apparent disregard for anything but themselves; they are Diogenes' doppelgangers. When you meet your double, don't you have kill him?