Loser Sad Quotes

Narcissists are consumed with maintaining a shallow false self to others. They're emotionally crippled souls that are addicted to attention. Because of this they use a multitude of games, in order to receive adoration. Sadly, they are the most ungodly of God's creations because they don't show remorse for their actions, take steps to make amends or have empathy for others. They are morally bankrupt.

I just didn't want to be a loser anymore... -Mitsuko Souma

I have it in my head that when we’re born, God writes things down on our hearts. See, on some people’s hearts he writes “happy” and on some people’s hearts he writes “sad” and on some people’s hearts he writes “crazy” and on some people’s hearts he writes “genius” and on some people’s hearts he writes “angry” and on some people’s hearts he writes “winner” and on some people’s hearts he writes “loser.” I keep seeing a newspaper being tossed around in the wind. And then a strong gust comes along and the newspaper is thrown against a barbed wire fence and it gets ripped to shreds in an instant. That’s how I feel. I think God is the wind. It’s all like a game to him. Him. God. And it’s all pretty much random. He takes out his pen and starts writing on our blank hearts. When it came to my turn, he wrote “sad.” I don’t like God very much. Apparently, he doesn’t like me very much either.

But on a Sunday morning when I want to grab an omelet over girl talk, I’m at a loss. My Chicago friends are the let’s-get-dinner-on-the-books-a-month-in-advance type. We email, trading dates until we find an open calendar slot amidst our tight schedules of workout classes, volunteer obligations (no false pretenses here, the volunteers are my friends, not me, sadly), work events, concert tickets and other dinners scheduled with other girls. I’m looking for someone to invite to watch The Biggest Loser with me at the last minute or to text “pedicure in half an hour?” on a Saturday morning. To me, that’s what BFFs are.

Edward wants her on a biological level, right?" "Are you seriously dissecting Twilight right now?" God, I am. This is what Allie has reduced me to. A sad, pathetic loser who goes to a bar and forces his friend to to participate in a Twilight book club.

Aw,” I said, “look at this guy. He’s never even seen a girl before.” Fenton’s gaze jerked from my chest to my face, confusion twisting his eyebrows. “What?” “Only a basement-dwelling loser would stare like that.” “What?” I looked sadly at Aaron. “And he’s deaf too! Poor thing.

She was trying to say something else; she was trying to say that the inability to articulate what one feels in any satisfactory way is one of our enduring tragedies. It wouldn't have been much, and it wouldn't have been useful, but it would have been something that reflected the gravity and the sadness inside her. Instead, she had snapped at him for being a loser. It was as if she were trying to find a handhold on the boulder of her feelings, and had merely ended up with grit under her nails.

It’s impossible to fathom the sadness of those who are left behind, but if life gives one more suffering than death, shouldn’t we respect their right to end life? We are so bad at mourning in our society. Maybe it’s a failure of respect. Some call those who choose their own death sinners or failures or losers who give up. Is living until the end really a triumph in every case? As if there can be any true winning or losing in this game of life

You think I like this?” I say defensively. “Trust me, I don’t need this headache in my life.” I swallow a mouthful of beer. “Hey. You know Twilight?” He blinks. “Excuse me?” “Twilight. The vampire book.” His wary eyes study my face. “What about it?” “Okay, so you know how Bella’s blood is extra special? Like how it gives Edward a raging boner every time he’s around her?” “Are you fucking with me right now?” I ignore that. “Do you think it happens in real life? Pheromones and all that crap. Is it a bullshit theory some horndog dreamed up so he could justify why he’s attracted to his mother or some shit? Or is there actually a biological reason why we’re drawn to certain people? Like goddamn Twilight. Edward wants her on a biological level, right?” “Are you seriously dissecting Twilight right now?” God, I am. This is what Allie has reduced me to. A sad, pathetic loser who goes to a bar and forces his friend to participate in a Twilight book club.

Is the burden of independent thought wearing you down? Do you dread the indecision that awaits every time you open your wardrobe? Are you embarrassed by your reticence when you hear other people discuss current affairs, music, relationships, etcetera? Don't worry, you're not alone. Help is just a pair of clippers away! We've helped thousands of sad losers avoid confronting their loneliness and inadequacy, and we can do the same for you. We'll tell you what to wear. We'll tell you what to think. We'll tell you what music to listen to. and most importantly, we'll bring you together with lots of people exactly the same as yourself — it's just like having friends!

You're a dead man". I hear his voice again, and I see the words on my face when I get back in the cab and look in the rearview mirror. It makes me think of my life, my nonexistent accomplishments and my overall abilities in incompetence. "A dead man", I think. He's not far wrong.

The cities are full of women falling for the cool loser: the man trafficking in “edgy” so women cut him slack in his more loathsome behaviors. Christ, I know so many, it’s sad. Please accept my flaws (and pay my rent) because I can play guitar! Badly.

By the way, I’ve been homeless for the past two years. Some of you may think, Aw, how sad. Others may think, Ha, ha, loser! But if you saw me on the street, ninety-nine percent of you would walk right past like I’m invisible. You’d pray, Don’t let him ask me for money.

I've seen a rich man beg, I've seen a good man sin I've seen a tough man cry, I've seen a loser win And a sad man grin, I heard an honest man lie I've seen the good side of bad and the downside of up And everything between I licked the silver spoon, drank from the golden cup And smoked the finest green I stroked the fattest dimes at least a couple of times Before I broke their heart You know where it ends, yo, it usually depends on where you start

I want you to forget what i told you earlier, I... I couldn’t love someone like you. I hate you. I thought it the second i saw you in the park. You were just poison! Drinking beer in the morning, quoting some stupid Tanka to me! You listening to other people talking all day just so you never have to reveal a thing about yourself! You knew who I was, I was just a kid! What were you thinking what’s wrong with you?! If I’d know who you were I wouldn’t have told you a thing about me or my dreams. You don’t think I can do it! You don’t think I’ll ever amount to anything! What is that why you didn’t say anything to me? You thought maybe you'd humor the little kid? Indulge his fantasies for a little while! Just string him along? Just say it I’ll never measure up to my dreams! You knew from the beginning you could have just admitted it! But you played along. So tell me god damn it! Tell me that little kids should run along to school! Tell me that you hate me! Say it! Come on listener say something for a change! You loser! Its because you act like that. You never say what's important! You act like it's none of your business! You've been living your whole life alone!

Hey. You know Twilight?” He blinks. “Excuse me?” “Twilight. The vampire book.” His wary eyes study my face. “What about it?” “Okay, so you know how Bella’s blood is extra special? Like how it gives Edward a raging boner every time he’s around her?” “Are you fucking with me right now?” I ignore that. “Do you think it happens in real life? Pheromones and all that crap. Is it a bullshit theory some horndog dreamed up so he could justify why he’s attracted to his mother or some shit? Or is there actually a biological reason why we’re drawn to certain people? Like goddamn Twilight. Edward wants her on a biological level, right?” “Are you seriously dissecting Twilight right now?” God, I am. This is what Allie has reduced me to. A sad, pathetic loser who goes to a bar and forces his friend to participate in a Twilight book club.

The sad fact of life: Winners love the game. Losers don't.

Christ, what a sad collection of losers, mm?' 'Too much time on their hands, mate. Leads to poetry.

We are strengthening by different experiences in life; Sad times, happy moments. Poverty, riches. Failure, success. Troubles, good times. Losing, winning.

Then it was horn time. Time for the big solo. Sonny lifted the trumpet - One! Two! - He got it into sight - Three! We all stopped dead. I mean we stopped. That wasn't Sonny's horn. This one was dented-in and beat-up and the tip-end was nicked. It didn't shine, not a bit. Lux leaned over-you could have fit a coffee cup into his mouth. "Jesus God," he said. "Am I seeing right?" I looked close and said: "Man, I hope not." But why kid? We'd seen that trumpet a million times. It was Spoof's. Rose-Ann was trembling. Just like me, she remembered how we'd buried the horn with Spoof. And she remembered how quiet it had been in Sonny's room last night... I started to think real hophead thoughts, like - where did Sonny get hold of a shovel that late? and how could he expect a horn to play that's been under the ground for two years? and - That blast got into our ears like long knives. Spoof's own trademark! Sonny looked caught, like he didn't know what to do at first, like he was hypnotized, scared, almighty scared. But as the sound came out, rolling out, sharp and clean and clear - new-trumpet sound - his expression changed. His eyes changed: they danced a little and opened wide. Then he closed them, and blew that horn. Lord God of the Fishes, how he blew it! How he loved it and caressed it and pushed it up, higher and higher and higher. High C? Bottom of the barrel. He took off, and he walked all over the rules and stamped them flat. The melody got lost, first off. Everything got lost, then, while that horn flew. It wasn't only jazz; it was the heart of jazz, and the insides, pulled out with the roots and held up for everybody to see; it was blues that told the story of all the lonely cats and all the ugly whores who ever lived, blues that spoke up for the loser lamping sunshine out of iron-gray bars and every hop head hooked and gone, for the bindlestiffs and the city slicers, for the country boys in Georgia shacks and the High Yellow hipsters in Chicago slums and the bootblacks on the corners and the fruits in New Orleans, a blues that spoke for all the lonely, sad and anxious downers who could never speak themselves... And then, when it had said all this, it stopped and there was a quiet so quiet that Sonny could have shouted: 'It's okay, Spoof. It's all right now. You get it said, all of it - I'll help you. God, Spoof, you showed me how, you planned it - I'll do my best!' And he laid back his head and fastened the horn and pulled in air and blew some more. Not sad, now, not blues - but not anything else you could call by a name. Except... jazz. It was Jazz. Hate blew out of that horn, then. Hate and fury and mad and fight, like screams and snarls, like little razors shooting at you, millions of them, cutting, cutting deep... And Sonny only stopping to wipe his lip and whisper in the silent room full of people: 'You're saying it, Spoof! You are!' God Almighty Himself must have heard that trumpet, then; slapping and hitting and hurting with notes that don't exist and never existed. Man! Life took a real beating! Life got groined and sliced and belly-punched and the horn, it didn't stop until everything had all spilled out, every bit of the hate and mad that's built up in a man's heart. ("Black Country")

When I was a kid, I used to watch that show, sitting on the couch in my pajamas and wishing more than anything that one day I'd just change into this other person. I thought that would explain everything. You know, about why I felt so different. Then I'd find out that my mother was really an alien or that I'd been bitten by a radioactive spider as a baby and it would all be okay because I'd be able to fly and see through walls.. But it never happened. I just went on being me my whole life, until one day I realized that all those superheroes were doing was fighting themselves, and that getting to breathe underwater or shoot fire from your fingers didn't really make up for being screwed up in the first place. It was just the consolation prize - you got the great costume and the invisible jet for being a loser in everything else.

There had to be consequences. Lacey was always right about that. Maybe freaks stayed freaks and losers stayed losers, maybe sad and weak was forever, but villains only stayed villains until someone stopped them.

People spend half of their free time drinking alcohol and the other half watching totally sober people on television. And they want to be those people, live those lives. Ever wondered why we rarely see a person actually drinking alcohol on television? It’s because they would come across embarrassing sad-assed losers. They just wouldn't be entertaining. They would think they were.

I have it in my head that when we’re born, God writes things down on our hearts. See, on some people’s hearts he writes happy and on some people’s hearts he writes sad and on some people’s hearts he writes crazy and on some people’s hearts he writes genius and on some people’s hearts he writes angry and on some people’s hearts he writes winner and on some people’s hearts he writes loser.

Probably not.  I like to do things on my own."   "Yes.  I am well aware of your rather obsessive independence."  Oh, good. Obsessive?   "I'm not obsessive about it.  I just find it easier to do things for myself, rather than be disappointed when..."   "Disappointed when you are let down, and/or betrayed?  Am I right?"    "You know you're right.  Please... please don't play games with me," I beg.   I don't like this at all.   "Oh, Sweetheart... I'm not playing games with you.  I'm listening to what you do and don’t say and repeating it back to you.  I want you to hear all I hear.  I want you to see all I see.  Remember, I'm just learning you, but you have known yourself always.  Therefore, I am a fresh perspective to all you know, say, and feel.  Do you understand what I'm trying to give to you?"    "I know when you give back to me my own words; I don't like to hear them.  I sound pathetic.  I sound like a loser.  I never thought I was a loser, until all of this and I hate it.  I hate the way you see me.  I'm embarrassed that I'm essentially, completely transparent. I don't like this game, anymore."  I feel so sad suddenly.

CHORUS OF NIGHT VOICES Come out, come out, wherever you are, you dreamers and drowners, you loafers and losers, you shadow-seekers and orphans of the sun. Come out, come out, you flops and fizzler, you good-for-nothings and down-and-outers, a day's outcasts, dark's little darlin's. Come on, all you who are misbegotten and woebegone, all you with black thoughts and red-fever-visions, come on, you small-town Ishmaels with your sad blue eyes, you plain Janes and hard-luck guys, come, you gripers and groaners, you goners and loners, you sad sack and shlemiels, come on, come on, you pale romantics and pie-eye Palookas, you has-beens and never-will-bes, you sun-mocked and day-doomed denizens of the dar: come out into the night.

I’m sorry he was a loser, Nina. But you’re a big girl now; you can handle this.” And with that she hung up. Nina sighed and wondered if she would ever be a mom herself and, if she were, would she be any better at it than her own mother was. As a child, Nina had been sad her mother wasn’t there, because everyone else seemed to think it was sad. Then, as a teenager, she’d been angry with her absent mother and blamed her for her own anxiety and shyness. Now, as an adult, she’d come to the conclusion that her mother being away all the time had probably been a blessing. Her nanny, Louise, had been a wonderful mother, and her mother had been a wonderful photographer. Biology is not destiny, and love is not proportionate to shared DNA.

At the time that he had seriously begun to consolidate his organization, Parker was working in a custom photo lab. The reader who is not much taken by audiovisual pastimes may have a deficient picture of that place where Parker was employed; or perhaps not so much a deficient picture--the dyes faded, shoddily spotted, brutishly burned in and doltishly dodged by subhuman technicians under the glare of the enlargers--as an image which had been misfiled in the archives of the memory, representing instead one of those bleak Photo Drive-Ups and Presto Printses located nowadays on the corner of almost every large parking lot, in which the clerks wait sadly behind their glass counters, but no one comes in, and the air becomes darker and darker over the course of the morning as a result of exhaust fumes (there goes another brain cell; ping! - THAT thought will never be completed now); and the pink chubby tots smiling at your from the walls in sample enlargements become steadily more grimy, and by the lunch break they are brown; and the day ticks off on the loud digital clock; and then finally a car creeps into the lot, and a popeyed couple locks that vehicle doors listlessly; they request a reprint of a washed-out snapshot of their son who was killed in the Indian Wars, and they go away; and after a long time here comes a slick-haired teenager who once took a few pix of his girlfriend holding a balloon at the zoo in front of the monkey cage on a dirty overcast day, and the clerk can tell just by looking at this customer that they won’t come out, because the guy’s a loser if the clerk knows anything at all about losers and in fact he knows a hell of a lot about losers because why else would he be stuck with this job?

To live a better life, you really just have to get stuck into the failure, and the mess, and the confusion, and the hell of what's happening right now. You have to get more familiar with failure. You have to take failure to a show. You have to buy it a steak and kiss it on the mouth. That's how you heal. That's how you make better decisions in the future. So you have to apply for a boat load of jobs. And you have to get turned down for a boat load of jobs. You have to relapse in your recovery and you have to fall all the way back down again. We all do it and we all suffer and hate ourselves and declare ourselves fuck ups, and losers, and space wasters, and nonsense cobblers, and mistake squids, and we lie down on the floor and give up for awhile. And then sometime later, when the shame and the sadness have worn off a bit and we start to feel a bit peckish, we get up, dust off, and we go get 40 chicken nuggets and start the process all over again. And this time we know more. We know where the traps are and we know more of what we're up against. And we're tougher this time around.

Life is once, Death is Once, You'll find happy and sad. If your life doesn't move into other side, you may be a loser.

Yes. I know. I look like you. Crazy, eh? Can you believe it? What sort of sad loser spends his whole adult life pretending to be someone he was in love with when he was a child? You know, I even call myself Phin sometimes. Isn’t that pathetic?’ Phin nods, then shakes his head, then says, ‘Yes. That is pretty fucked up. What are you doing here? What do you want?

She was trying to say something else; she was trying to say that the inability to articulate what one feels in any satisfactory was is one of our enduring tragedies. It wouldn't have been much, and it wouldn't have been useful, but it would have been something that reflected the gravity and the sadness inside her. Instead, she snapped at him for being a loser. It was as if she were trying to find a handhold on the boulder of her feelings, and had merely ended up with grit under her nails.

Characteristics of Healthy, Constructive Anger Characteristics of Unhealthy, Destructive Anger 1. You express your feelings in a tactful way. 1. You deny your feelings and pout (passive aggression) or lash out and attack the other person (active aggression). 2. You try to see the world through the other person’s eyes, even if you disagree. 2. You argue defensively and insist there’s no validity in what the other person is saying. 3. You convey a spirit of respect for the other person, even though you may feel quite angry with him or her. 3. You believe the other person is despicable and deserving of punishment. You appear condescending or disrespectful. 4. You do something productive and try to solve the problem. 4. You give up and see yourself as a helpless victim. 5. You try to learn from the situation so you will be wiser in the future. 5. You don’t learn anything new. You feel that your view of the situation is absolutely valid. 6. You eventually let go of the anger and feel happy again. 6. Your anger becomes addictive. You won’t let go of it. 7. You examine your own behavior to see how you may have contributed to the problem. 7. You blame the other person and see yourself as an innocent victim. 8. You believe that you and the other person both have valid ideas and feelings that deserve to be understood. 8. You insist that you are entirely right and the other person is entirely wrong. You feel convinced that truth and justice are on your side. 9. Your commitment to the other person increases. Your goal is to feel closer to him or her. 9. You avoid or reject the other person. You write him or her off. 10. You look for a solution where you can both win and nobody has to lose. 10. You feel like you’re in a battle or a competition. If one person wins, you feel that the other one will be a loser. Now that you’ve examined sadness and anger, I’d like you to compare healthy fear with neurotic anxiety. What are some of the differences? Think about the kinds of events that might bring on these feelings, how long the feelings last, whether the thoughts are realistic or distorted, and so forth. See if you can think of five differences, and list them here. The answer to this exercise is on page 88. Try to come up with your own ideas before you look. Characteristics of Healthy Fear Characteristics of Neurotic Anxiety 1. 1. 2. 2. 3. 3. 4. 4. 5. 5. Similarly, healthy remorse is not the same as neurotic guilt. What are some of the differences? List them here. Characteristics of Healthy Remorse Characteristics of

As wretched as she was, she wanted Harry to be miserable, too. And yet, she was aware of an underlying sense of sadness. Theirs may have been the first war in which there were no winners, only losers.

One should never underestimate the power of a true believer to believe. It's more than a hobby. It's more than a way of life. It's a psychological condition. These folks are defined by their desperate need to believe, and will do so with the least provocation. Hardly matters what. They take pride in their ability to accept the most bizarre notions with the least amount of evidence, the exact opposite of scientists, who pridefully nourish a skeptical attitude. As extraordinary as it sounds, the most direct absolute incontrovertible proof to the contrary will not only NOT dissuade the eager believer, the psychological process set in motion by contrary evidence has the effect of creating an even stronger belief. Which is why flying saucer fans will continue to believe even though they were not picked up at the expected time and place, and why rapture buffs will enthusiastically follow the pastor who predicted the last doomsday that didn’t happen. These people hunger for the traumatic end of the world, the world in which they are seen as losers. The imagined rapture is their opportunity to say neigh neigh to all those smug non believers with their smarter than thou attitudes. And if at times they feel silly for believing in obvious absurdities, the rapture would surely reward them for their foolish faith. Few would call them morons then. As one of the greatest philosophers of our time once said, "Isn't it sad how some people's grip on their lives is so precarious that they'll embrace any preposterous delusion rather than face an occasional bleak truth." Calvin, of Calvin and Hobbes, age six at the time.

Of course it’s fairly obvious where it’s coming from. Even the most casual Democratic voters understand by now that there is a schism within the party, one that pits “party insiders” steeped in the inside-baseball muck of Washington money culture against . . . well, against us, the actual voters. The insiders have for many years running now succeeded in convincing their voters that their actual beliefs are hopeless losers in the general electoral arena, and that certain compromises must be made if the party is ever to regain power. This defeatist nonsense is sold to the public in the form of beady-eyed party hacks talking to one another in the opinion pages of national media conglomerates, where, after much verbose and solemn discussion, the earnest and idealistic candidate the public actually likes is dismissed on the grounds that “he can’t win.” In his place is trotted out the guy the party honchos insist to us is the real “winner”—some balding, bent little bureaucrat who has grown prematurely elderly before our very eyes over the course of ten or twenty years of sad, compromise-filled service in the House or the Senate. This “winner” is then given a lavish parade and sent out there on the trail, and we hold our noses as he campaigns in our name on a platform of Jesus, the B-2 bomber, and the death penalty for eleven-year-olds, consoling ourselves that he at least isn’t in favor of repealing the Voting Rights Act. (Or is he? We have to check.) Then he loses to the Republicans anyway and we start all over again—beginning with the next primary election, when we are again told that the antiwar candidate “can’t win” and that the smart bet is the corporate hunchback still wearing two black eyes from the last race. No

Yes, I just…” Should I be honest and sound like a complete loser? Oh why the hell not? “I have not had a kiss like that in a while.” I licked my lips. He looked me dead in the eye. “Good.” A wave of silence crashed over us. I didn’t know what to say to that. “Well, I better get going. See you soon?” I nodded dumbly. “Mmm-hmm.” He smiled and began to walk away. I couldn’t just let him go! “Declan!” He turned. “Yes, Cake?” Come on, brain! Think of something! “What should I wear? I mean, what kind of place is Shellshock?” Yes, yes, that was fine… damage averted. “California casual.” “Oh, ok.” I think I knew what that meant. Spend three hours getting ready to make it look like you just threw any-ol’-thing on. “Have a nice night.” He flicked his head my way. “You too.” Then he was gone. And then I was sad. It was ridiculous. Preposterous, even. I was going to have to come clean about the ring- eventually. I hoped he didn’t bring it up because I would probably tell the poor guy my life story to get to why the ring he bought meant so much to me.

Yet that's how it felt for years and years -- that Andover ground me beneath the heel of its Bass Weejuns because it needed losers to make its golden Adonises shine even brighter. I wandered through so lost and sad, I can't believe nobody ever asked me what was wrong. Nothing, I would have said, by which I would have meant Everything.

The Invitation There are lives in which nothing goes right. The would-be suicide takes a bottle of pills and immediately throws up. He tries to hang himself but gets his arm caught in the noose. He tries to throw himself under a subway but misses the last train. He walks home. It is raining. He catches a cold and dies. Once in heaven it is no better. He mops the marble staircase and accidentally jams his foot in the pail. All his harp strings break. His halo slips down over his neck and nearly chokes him. Why is he here? demands one of the noble dead, an archbishop or general, a leader of men: If a loser like that can enter heaven, then how is it an honor for us to be here as well – those of us who are totally deserving? But the would-be suicide knows none of this. In the evening, he returns to his little cloud house and watches the sun set over the planet Earth. He stares down at the cities filled with people and thinks how sad it is that they should rush backwards and forwards as if they had some great destination when their only destination is death itself – a place to be reached by sitting as well as running. He thinks about his own life with its betrayals and disappointments. Regret, regret – how he never made a softball team, how his favorite shirts always shrank in the wash. His eyes moisten and he sheds a few tears, but secretly, because in heaven crying is forbidden. Still, the tears tumble down through all those layers of blue sky and strike a salesman rushing between Point A and Point B. The salesman slips, staggers, and stops as if slapped in the face. People on the street think he’s crazy or drunk. Why am I selling ten thousand ballpoint pens? he asks himself. Suddenly his only wish is to dance the tango. He sees how the setting sun caresses the cold faces of the buildings. He sees a beautiful woman and desperately wants to ask her to stroll in the park. Maybe he will kiss her cheek; maybe she will love him back. You maniac, she tells him, didn’t you know I was only waiting for you to ask me?

Being continously a winner comes also with the sadness to see so many losers

So, what exactly did Ignita tell you about me?” he hissed, sounding decidedly peevish, even to his own ears. “All good?” “Besides that you are her favourite great-nephew by any measure under the suns –” wielding the foot-wide ladle with aplomb, she poured one last bucketful of dragonwort soup, a noted restorative, down his throat with a pleasant gurgle “– she said that you are honourable, faithful, creative, artistic, misunderstood, a Dragon whose heart lives in his poetry, which you have sadly neglected to admit to me; you are finicky to a fault, severely short-sighted and lacking in firepower.” Gnarr-rum-blasted-death! he swore unhappily. “Nice list. Thanks for sharing.” Blithely, the mite added, “Ignita is also furious that you did not come to her earlier with your eye problems.” Blitz said something even ruder. “She even claimed that I’m more stubborn than you, which I believe was meant to be a compliment. Now, hold still. The eye drops are next.” “She specifically said, ‘Lacking in fire power?’ ” He sighed moodily, unable to break the sense of being utterly defeated. This was not a happy place for a Dragon. His wings drooped as if they weighed a tonne each, and his food stomach churned with nausea. “She didn’t use words such as disabled, worthless, fireless lizard, witless fool, cold-hearted undraconic worm, a Dragon who is no Dragon at all, or –” “Blitz, stop.” “So, why don’t you just run back to Daddy, little Princess? Go on. Go home. Why be dragged down in the maelstrom of a worthless loser?” “Blitz! Shut your stupid fangs.” “Whinging being so charismatic in a Dragon …” Grinding her teeth furiously, the girl who was climbing his neck leaned over to his left upper ear canal and hissed, “Do you know what I would go back to, you thumping great moron? Let me give you the salient highlights. Since I was old enough to walk and my mother passed, it has been impressed upon me that my sole purpose in life is to get married to the richest fool I can charm into my bed, no matter how despicable he might be. I will not inherit. That privilege is for my brothers. Instead, I am merely an entry on my kingdom’s asset register – a very fat entry. I am commanded to be charming, accomplished and perfectly presented at all times. I go to balls to catch wealthy Princes. Can you imagine what it is like to be valued for your dark, beautiful skin, and nothing else? To only ever be seen skin-deep – I mean … you know?” Blitz groaned softly. “So aye, I don’t really want to go home, in case that was somehow unclear. I would rather live with an enormously unreasonable, complaining, crabby, haughty chunk of a Dragon, because among your many admirable qualities and your damnably beautiful honour, you have one gift I value above all others. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?” He croaked, “Of course, aye … sort of … not a whole lot. Sorry.” Nonsensical, but true. Warm moisture dripped into his ear. Crying! Oh, by his wings, what had he done now? The Princess whispered, “You see me, and accept me, just as I am.

A sad person knows what another sad person looks like,” I said. I dared to reach out, brushing my fingers along her cheek to tuck a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. Goosebumps prickled over her arms, and my eyes widened. “I hear it in your voice. I see it in your eyes. I feel it when I look at you. You deserve to be happy, but you’ll never find it with the people you’re choosing.

But doing this, helping Jason crack open the shell he’d lived in for so long, felt like a process of mourning. It was full of sadness for who he’d been, while clinging to hope for what he could be. It was a death, but it was a rebirth too.

Although before he disappears down the hallway, he turns around to look at me one last time. And he looks so sad. That surprises me. I mean, Hudson is now one of the most popular kids in school. His life is infinitely better than it was when it was just us two losers hanging out together. But for a moment, I wonder if he misses when it was just the two of us. I wonder if he misses me as much as I miss him.

Social networking, while it certainly has some potentially valuable uses is, sadly, much more likely to be viewed as one of the most sinister developments in world history, making the controllers of the social networks the richest and most powerful people in the world… and making billions of people fritter their lives away with keeping their “status” up to date. Never forget, if you’re on Facebook too much, your status is always LOSER!

Try to work on being okay with being a total reject, a freak, a wobbly little weirdo, a loser, a fine-ass hottie, and an ordinary everyday girl with all kinds of struggles. It’s okay. Try to remind yourself, every single day, that it’s you who decides if you’re happy or not, the real you, the current you, not the past you. And your happiness should definitely not be up to everybody else in this goddamn shitty, fucked-up world. Remember that things are always changing. Remember that love, even if it goes bad in the end, was still a good thing, because it came from you, out of who you are as a person. Remember that the good times, when they happen, are worth all the trouble. Remember that sadness and heartbreak, frustration and loss, even bitter, hopeless fucking tragedy, they’re all part of what makes a beautiful story. Just like flaws, freakiness, fuck-ups, and all your fallible character defects are all part of what makes a fantastic fucking you. Remember that making mistakes doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you a human being, somebody who’s just trying to get through this fucked up life, just like everybody else, and doesn’t know everything. Sometimes you screw up. Sometimes a fuck up ruins lives. But you’re only a bad person if you don’t learn anything from your mistakes, if you just keep going, like a bull in a China shop, hurting people over and over forever, never changing. Remember that you can still love yourself, even if you’ve made horrible, terrible mistakes, even if you’ve ruined people’s lives. You can still love who you are. You have to, or you won’t survive. Remember that the awful things people did to you do not define who you are. Your choices define who you are, and you never chose any of that shit. Remember that you’re not all alone in being a freak. Remember that you fucking rock.

Like a bug drawn to light, Trump’s trust and respect tend toward those who praise him as the sun and moon. A fellow Republican questions his policy? They are a sad, crazy loser with a low IQ who can’t help but cry on their knees before his majesty. A foreign dictator wishes him a happy birthday and slurs an American rival? Best of brotherly love sent across the sea.

My friend enjoys his lashings like a Catholic schoolboy being flogged with priestly anal beads covered in wet dung. He takes it like he deserves it, like shit happens. He takes it like the good boy he wants to be and then he prays about it while he repents. I often wonder if he still believes in God.

STEP FOUR Whenever anyone poses some kind of threat to Trump’s contention that [INSERT CLAIM], he will take to Twitter to discredit them. His favorite adjectives include, but are not limited to, “loser,” “sad,” “weak,” “dumb,” “failing,” “overrated,” “phony,” and “crazy.” Name-calling will be repeated in interviews, at rallies, and in other public forums as desired. The verbal assaults will cease only when and if the target of the insults recants and pledges support to Trump.

A sad fact in life is that you cannot have winners without losers, no matter what you do, it's up to you to make out which one you are.

Does the winner take it all? 
 They say, in the end winner takes it all, The loser has to bear the despair and fall, The winner is there standing tall, And the loser is moving like shadow on the wall, While the winner is welcomed by the loud applause, The loser is still contemplating failure and its emotional clause, Where he feels time and life, in a state of pause, And is awakened by this thunderous applause, Not for him, today, not for him, And a feeling sad takes over him and he feels grim, The lights in the playground of life turn dim, And now nobody, just these faint lights and distant stars look at  him, He stares back at them in the darkness, With a sense of isolation a feeling of aloofness, And then a feeling a freshness and a look of brightness, Descends upon him amidst these moments of darkness, And he believes again, he hopes again, and he stands again, With the will not to surrender, and rise and gain, No matter how much the pain, His moment of applause, his winning moment, his new reign, Of triumph and endless glory, Where he will be the author of his success story, And he competes again, this time to win without seeking glory, Because there is always glory in the winner’s story, So, he runs and he runs, and reaches the finish line, He looks behind and claims, “today victory is mine!” For every failure something is always waiting, always there, the finish line, Only if you are willing to run again, compete again, and not let one  failure define, You, your life or your will to win, For winner may take it all, but he/she can never take your will to  win, The fish will swim, the fish will be happy as long as it manages to  flap its fin, So today let the winner take it all, but tomorrow if you have the will to win, you will win, Let them sing, “the winner takes it all,  The loser is bound to fall,” But the loser will rise again and stand tall, That is when everything else, except him shall lose and fall!

mad maddie: zoe, angela is her own worst enemy, you know. zoegirl: i love her so much, but i do kind of understand what you’re saying. but i don’t know how to tell her that to her face. i don’t even know if i want to say it to her face. mad maddie: i do. i just wanna shake her shoulders and say, “GET A CLUE! HE IS A LOSER!!!” zoegirl: i know. it’s so sad. mad maddie: yeah, but it’s also just ANNOYING.

Thirty minutes later, Chrysander escorted her out to the helipad, and as soon as the helicopter lifted off, he turned and strode back into the house. His anger and uncertainty evaporated when he entered the bedroom and found Marley sitting on the bed, wrapped only in a towel, her expression sad and distant. He knelt in front of her and touched her cheek. “What is it, agape mou? Are you all right?” She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. Her beautiful blue eyes that had sparkled just a short time ago with laughter. He wanted them to sparkle again. He wanted that stolen moment at the pool back. Before Roslyn had arrived and given him news that could very well change everything between him and Marley. Again. “I’m in an impossible situation,” she confessed. His brow wrinkled in confusion. He didn’t like the sadness in her tone. The resignation. “What do you mean?” he asked softly as he trailed a finger down the silken curve of her cheek. She looked into his eyes. “I don’t like the way she has free rein in our lives. This is our home. We should be able to make love, have fun together, without fear of being caught in a compromising situation by a stranger. But if I voice this, if I say I don’t like her and I don’t want her here, it makes me a catty bitch. There is no way for me to come out the winner and every way for me to be the loser in this.

I’m wasted because I have to look at your putrid face! You’re nothing but a sad broke bitch married to a pathetic loser with a mediocre wine collection. Well, guess what?

They stole the ground beneath his feet with deceit, and now they label him a loser. Sadly, the world buys their lies, overlooking both the truth and his suffering.

I can't hold back my sad laugh. "If only life were that simple." "You told me excuses are for losers.