I have hit rock bottom. I eat normally at work every morning, but then, in the afternoons, I continue my habit of cupcake-sundae deliveries and later go home and close the door and rid myself of myself. I don’t remember when it began. Probably sometime in the past two months when every minute of every day I’ve wished to leave my life behind. I am materials rich and agency poor: I feel starved of freedom, starved of the ability to do the self-constitutive activities that would make me me—so I feed myself, fill up and up and up. I have a set of memories with the same notes: turn on both hot and cold faucets because I hate the sound of my habits; purge; look over to the window where the dead orchids are sitting because I can’t bear to throw them away (I’m hoping they’ll spring back to life); purge again; brush my teeth; look at the moss and succulents in my terrarium and think of how they are still alive by being in a glass cage. I’ve gained thirty-six pounds since the start of Carbon. I can walk. But not run. I can’t work out. Sometimes I will chew and spit. This will happen at the office with Dang Coconut Chips, but only in the afternoons when shit gets so crazy that all I want to do is—this is the word I’ve been typing to Parmita—die. No item in my wardrobe fits me anymore, so I wear only Rent the Runway dresses. My bruxism has returned. I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I can’t cry.