Hatred mirrors my cursed luck with women. It isn't merely that I'm a loser; it's an atrocity, a brutal blow to the face. I feel as though my teeth have been shattered, and now I'm left begging for my life, for the smallest fragment of dignity. I don't want consciousness—I want clarity. I will retch up the clotted blood festering in my stomach, torn from the depths of my own entrails. I need a single breath to remind myself that I am miserable, and irreparably imperfect.