Your body is a vessel of the quintessence of insecurity and fears, Ronnie. That’s what she would have said, if she cared about your future. She never cared, but for some reason she had to keep on smiling falsely and pretending that it was normal. But can that really be normal? These days, yes, quite, but not for someone who turns their bodily temple into a sack filled with vile slime, which every morning you cough up. Disgusting, Ronnie.

Morning, you huddle uncertainly in the corner, waiting for just one thing, but your eyes dart around when you see that figure. And just a little more, and your uncertainty will curl you up into a ball. I think that's what you would want, because from the outside it looks very ridiculous.

Morning, your stomach twists, your breath catches, your thoughts are absent, and your hand reaches "there". Ronnie, you really are disgusting.

Morning, you stand in front of the mirror and think about how brilliantly you’re going to spend the day. And do you know why it’s going to be brilliant? Because in your pocket lies the catalyst for your mood. You promise yourself not to do it anymore, but first comes the first one, then the second, and so on, until your mouth fills with saliva, your pupils dilate, and thoughts that you could win the heart of even the most beautiful girl push your schedule for the day aside. It’s insanely thrilling. Ronnie, it’s disgusting.

Unexpectedly, it is evening. You are lying down, but suddenly the thought comes to approach the mirror and examine your throat, to imagine how deeply it would open, how quickly the floor would be flooded with red liquid, and how the room would fill with the smell of iron. Perhaps you are lucky, because you are still here and apparently the Lord exists, since he gently clasped your slender hand and redirected the blade lower. But can this be called mercy, since he allowed it to happen?

Answer yourself, Ronnie, why are you so disgusting.