You struggle to remember the last time you had any real desire. You are confident that it was anger, lust, despair, or some other underdeveloped emotion which bypassed your higher thought centers in order to escape into your perception.

Life for you is one long game of poorly-played Breakout. Your hand is too jittery to move the paddle smoothly (pick your affliction: lack of food, lack of sleep, too much caffeine, atrophied arm muscles), but there is no real ambition to move beyond Level 3 anyway. You often find yourself with one block remaining – for long stretches of time – making no attempt to aim your ball at the last piece.

Your psychiatrist is leaving town. He says you can get your family doctor to prescribe your selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitor whenever you need more. Apparently he doesn't even need to see you; family doctors just give out the stuff like candy. You wonder if this means you are medicated for life. You wonder who your family doctor is.

On the phone, your best friend says you remind him of Tyler Durden. You hate pop-culture references. You say "whatever". He wants to set up a date to do drugs with you soon, because he has to go clean when his girlfriend gets out of the hospital. You don't really care, so you keep the plans vague and distant.

What day is it, anyway? You've missed some deadlines, haven't you? What are those loud noises which keep shaking the house? Are you getting too much sleep, or not enough? This is so much better than depression.

Breakout says: "You have 0 balls remaining".