so what?
The only year I refused to go to my neighbor's Easter party was the year she dropped dead during the party.
The only year I refused to go to my neighbor's Easter party was the year she dropped dead during the party.
A wave of guilt came over me as I watched the moth struggle in the spiderweb after it had be derailed from its path by the smoke I exhaled.
I said no, and he didn't stop, so I let him do it anyway so he wouldn't get even more aggressive.
As I overheard my employees gossiping about how I "need to get laid," I had to wonder, would that prescription change if any of them knew I am a recovering sex addict.
His suicide note blamed me.
I've never felt as guilty as when my mother took one look at me the weekend I lost my virginity on a class trip and said, "Something is different about you."
25 years later, I still feel guilty for shooting that leopard frog in the head with my BB gun.
Cheating on my boyfriend with a gorgeous French man wasn't all it was cut out to be.
My father almost died when I was 14 because I lied to my Mom, telling her there was nothing in the drawer where I found his suicide note.
I was only five and he was seven, but we were responsible.
It's hard lying to the parents who raised you to be an honest man, even for the sake of your little sister.
After crushing the tiny spider with a roll of painters tape I felt a sudden pang of guilt knowing that I had ended a life for no reason other than my own silly phobia.
She hung herself with the purse I gave her for Christmas.
I stole a pack of gum from a grocery store when I was eight, but felt so guilty about it that I left the pack on the windowsill outside.
As I watched my best friend gurgle, splutter, choke, and struggle unsuccessfully for air for over a minute, then pass out face floor on the ground, I thought, "Maybe I should hit her on the back or something."
I stole his wallet, but the picture of his little girl caused me to feel guilty for the first time in a very long time.
Insignificant, I am the mother of a 25-year-old son for whom I neither baked a cake nor mailed a birthday card--I did call him--and I want you to know that perhaps your mother feels as guilty as I do about it and that we LOVE YOU--our precious sons--despite our laziness.
It was the third morning in a row she had awoken from the same dream and knew, as she looked at her boyfriend sleeping next to her, that dreaming about another guy shouldn't have felt so right.
I spend every day hoping someone in my community dies so that I can finish my 10-funeral-observation before I go back to school in August.
I was her babysitter, her superhero, her mentor, her protector, her beloved father-figure all her life up to the day I molested her.
Eight months ago I deleted each and every one of her online profiles using the password she entrusted me to use if she committed suicide, and two hours ago I gave her advice on being a good person.
His rental contract didn't include bill payment, but I took disproportionate pleasure in making him feel so guilty about the size of the fuel bill that he paid me some money towards it anyway.
He threw the condom out the car door when we were finished over a year ago, but I still feel guilty that I didn't stop him from littering.
I am heart-sick because, like many parents of children with profound disabilities, my most secret and unspoken prayer is "Dear God, please let me outlive my child."
It wasn't until the eulogy ended that I realized I had been thinking about porn instead of listening.