There are some people who get up in the morning for the express purpose of making somebody miserable before the day is out. They generally pitch upon some sunny-faced, happy, singing human lark caroling high above the ditches and marshes of life, soaring in the blue ether of their happiness, nearer God and the angels than they know anything about, and, taking practiced aim at some vulnerable point, bring them plump down, with maimed wing, to flutter in the dust. Now what is good enough for such a miscreant? The more you flutter the more they enjoy it; every writhe of your agonized spirit is delicious music to this vulture; there is one other person in the world as uncomfortable as they are. What right had you to be happy when their liver was out of order? It was clearly a piece of impertinent presumption, and so there you lie moaning and turning, the sunshine all gone, the chill mist of despondence gathering thick about you, and your persecutor standing by, turning you over now and then with his foot, to see if there is life enough left for a fresh attack.
Updated commentary of Fanny Fern from Ginger-Snaps (1870),
which happens to be in the public domain.