House: You lost your mother. You euthanized your brother. You got the life expectancy of a pretty good sitcom. If you can convince yourself that you'd be miserable no matter what even without all that stuff, then maybe you don't have to hate the universe for dumping a giant turd on you. Fatalism is your survival mechanism.
Thirteen: And you? Dumped by everyone you've ever loved. Rehab was a bust. Your leg feels like somebody took a giant bite out of it. We are who we are. Lotteries are stupid.
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