"I've wasted myself. I've turned into something I can't control. I'm dwarfed, minimized by everything around me. I'm scared of what's going on to happen next. Any unpredicted movement, any sound I haven't anticipated, terrifies me, lessens me. There's a pair of scissors on the desk in front of me. I'm picking them up, opening and closing them, pressing the rings of metal against my bone. I'm sticking my finger into the blades of the scissors and squeezing as hard as I can. They're dull. They won't cut into me. It doesn't hurt, it throbs, reminding me of the existence of my hand, which disgusts me. I hate my body more than I hate the objects and events that rub against it. I don't despite the conditions of my life as much as I despite the existence of my flesh."
Me, right now.