I Feel Like Melted Cheese: The Life of a Self-Pitier
By Bianca Ozeri
Today is one of those days where I can’t believe I have to be a human for the next sixty-five years. On these days — more abundant in this post-graduate alternate universe — I become particularly cynical. With that being said, I’m going to write about something that I think about a lot, but rarely ever speak of, let alone publish on the internet. Self-pity.
It’s a taboo subject mainly, I think, because everyone hates a self-loather and yet, everyone, on some shitty day or another, is one. So, at the risk of sounding like someone who you don’t want to hang out with, let me say: I’m in a place of deep self-pity right now. I’m fucking pissed off — and more so, sad — that I work at a restaurant instead of a literary magazine, that all of my friends live in Los Angeles (where I went to school), that my parents will never be in the same room again, that I live under my mother’s roof, that I’m not in love…
