My Name is Schadenfreude

[excerpt]

My name is Schadenfreude. I take pleasure in the misfortune of others. Whether I’m the snake in the back of the classroom or the over-achiever who silently scoffs the woes of those below my intellect, I do not care so long as I am satisfied. My friend Epicaricacy and I are standing by the statue of a dead woman. She has her arms wrapped around two bawling children, tears streaming down her own cheeks as she cries with them. Her name was Sympathy. That’s why she died. If it was me up there, I would have been pointing my finger at the two kids and laughing with my mouth wide open—the greatest kind of laugh. If it was me up there, the plaque would have read: F*ck you, move on. If it was me up there, Sympathy would still be alive. But it isn’t me up there. I am here, staring at this statue of a dead woman who passed away because there is too much sorrow in the world for her to sympathize with. Too bad, so sad. “She had it coming to her,” giggles Epicaricacy. “Honestly, I don’t understand why she’d willingly relate to people’s suffering.” I nod. That natural, snide smile returns to my face. “These people never learn,” I say, turning away from the statue, “that it’s so much easier to laugh than cry.”

[continue reading in the magazine]