Imagine that we've been in the apartment by ourselves since the previous evening, and now, at the start of the weekend, it's 11 in the morning.
A succession of small bits of bad news have been coming in over the past 24 hours.
Someone's unhappy with our performance at work; a customer complained about our attention to detail; we have a traffic fine to pay; the milk is off; a friend is accusing us of not caring enough about them, and then, the final straw, someone we very much hope to see for dinner canceled on us abruptly with an unconvincing excuse about their mother.
We try to keep the different strands separate, but eventually, in the stillness of the small living room, they coalesce into an overwhelming impression.
We're not very worthy.
There's something wrong with us.
We're ugly inside and out.
We've been like this since the start.
No one likes us.
We're going to die alone, unhappy and mediocre.
