Mexican, yes. I don't know what that chic meant by musty, but it didn't seem too polite, judging by the context clues. And true, she wasn't just addressing me, but my race as a whole. Which makes it sting all the more.

Lazy. A bit. But not in the way she put it. My job is not an excuse. I have yet to say I don't clean my room because I'm "too tired out from work." Haven't I always said I like the mess? (I have.) I bust my ass at UPS to get the cash I've got, to buy the shit I want, to get to where I want to in my life, in this that I might consider making into my career. I really do bust my ass, I do break myself, hurt myself, work up a sweat, sprain muscles, twist bones and bruise skin. It's what I love to do, and my slowly protuding muscles are proof of it. My arms and legs are getting thicker, stronger; my abdomen becoming steadily leaner as my back becomes broader. Yes, my job kicks ass, but it also kicks my ass, so don't you come over here and say that I place my job as an excuse. I work, you got that? Try it sometime. Bitch.

Hypochondriac. Oh, here we go a-fuckin'-gain! How many times do I gotta tell you that I know what it is I've got already? Why do you keep questioning me? Disbelieving me? I know you hate me, don't you, hate me? Look at that, I know you do...! Well, fuck you too, deary. I don't care if you don't believe me. I never cared, gave a fuck, or wanted opinions, to quote Mr. Mathers. My truth is my truth. It's my life, I'm living it, I know what's wrong or not wrong with me. I have always been the first to say that I do NOT have Multiple Personality Disorder. It's not a handicap for me, haven't I always said? I hate it when people pity me for it, which is why I keep it on the down-low. So how is it again that I use it as a cover? Yeah, fuck you too.