I just met the personification of what Shaw describes as a “feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making [them] happy.”
I bet at some point this person is convinced that they’re ‘doing their best.’ That it’s them against the world and, what are you so happy about anyway, Pollyanna?
There will come a time, there always does, when a moment of clarity descends upon them and they’ll see that they’ve wasted a great deal of time being miserable, when they could have chosen differently. It was up to them all along.
This is how we manufacture regret.