Wallowing In Self Pity 소설 & 이야기

I was thinking of crashing dinner at your place tonight, if I'm lucky enough to be welcome? Nathan suppressed his unease and muttered, "It's only been two days. What do you mean by 'ages'? Besides, it's your home too. Just come if you want." I only caught the last part, but Jessica heard it all. Jealousy consumed her as her nails dug into her palms. She was seemingly immune to the pain. Remembering her parents' plan from yesterday, a malicious expression crossed her face.

I knew at that moment that I had just crossed my boundary. ////////////////////////////////// Okay, so I have decided to give each chapter a status Frenzy(easy to write) Cranky( not easy) Frenzy but a little Cranky, you know what that is. This is imperfection, the first trilogy.

Rotten vegetables. Spoiled food. Wet cardboard. Something sour. Something decaying. I should have walked away. Instead... I slowly lowered myself onto the cold ground beside it. The concrete felt freezing beneath me. I hugged my knees tightly. No one would come here. No one would see me falling apart. No one would pity me. That was easier. Far easier than letting someone watch me shatter. I buried my face between my knees. The crying came quietly this time. Not loud. Not dramatic.

I wondered if she would ever be able to forgive me, or if she would always remember the awful things I had done. Shit! I'm quickly consumed by my own self-loathing, and it was like a black hole that was pulling me in. I felt like I was falling into an abyss, and there was no way to stop myself. My chest was aching, and my breathing was shallow. I was gripped by panic, and I didn't know what to do. All I could think about was the hurt I had caused and the mistakes I had made. I wished I could go back in time and change things, but I knew that was impossible.

What hurts the most? The expectation or the words? Margarita hated herself for everything she had become. A girl who used to live every moment of her life was now striving for an unadorned moment to summon a smile, she had given up so much in her life just to penalize herself, and now when everything was gone, she felt pity for herself. There was an undefined misery inside her. How dare she think she could strive for a moment of happiness with the man who, not once but numerous times, wrecked her confidence?

Or so I desperately needed to believe. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and slid them down my legs. The damp fabric confirmed my pathetic state. A fresh wave of self-loathing washed over me. But I was too far gone to stop now. My body was a traitor, and I was just giving it what it demanded.

It really bothered me when I slipped into petulant whiner mode, but there were times when I just couldn't help feeling sorry for myself. I figured this one was bad enough I should cut myself about a hundred years of slack. I paced my room for a while, wet hair soaking the back of my t-shirt as I struggled with what to do about the echo. No way was I going to be able to sleep up here if he repeated his popping out of nowhere performance and went all pissy on me. My stomach growled about an hour into my pity fest, but I refused to go downstairs and join Mom and Meira for dinner, even when my little sister came to my locked door and begged.

Depressed: (of a person) in a state of general unhappiness or despondency. Lowell My heart was beating so fucking fast. Humiliation poured like cold freezing water when I realized that I told everyone my life story. What humiliated me the most was the look on Tessa's face. Fuck. I hated her pity expression. I didn't want it. Not from her, not from anyone.

VETTA If you're going through hell, keep going. That's all I can say to motivate myself. You won't find a way out if you stop to wallow in self pity. I don't know what I feel. Is it sadness? Is it rage? Maybe it's both.

“What am I doing?” The self-talk has become constant, a low monologue I can’t switch off. “Maybe this is how I cure the loneliness — by keeping pieces of her alive online. By imagining what she’s feeling right now. By wondering if the baby is making her hands tremble when she sketches. If the nausea hits her harder than it hits me.” I laugh once, bitter and broken. “I’m pathetic. Chasing digital ghosts because the real woman is across the city carrying my child and I’m too much of a coward to bridge the gap I helped create.”