everybody's miserable in their own little way.

From a review of "The Fat Man and Infinity" by António Lobo Antunes:

The stories are gray, lifeless depictions of lower-class life in Portugal. Three representative titles are “A Feeling of Oh, What’s the Point,” “Will You Please Stop Bugging Me?” and “My Death.” Oh, and here are three of the stories’ upbeat first few words, chosen almost at random: “Gray Sundays leach into us,” “It’s not so much when it rains” and “My old man died yesterday.”

Hopefully I never get to that point.

I can't believe it's already March.