First of all—

I’m not a monster, damn it. OK? Get that? Got it? OK. Moving on.

Secondly—

I’d love to get my hands on the butcher who sewed me together. Right? He, or she—there, you happy, ladies?—he or she is the one who created my image as a monster. Right? He or she has been directing the narrative of my life for far too long. Truth. Doctor butcher, don’t let me find you. Got that? Karma’s nasty. Got it? OK.

Finally—

I deserve respect, yeah? I am a living memory, whether you remember the moment or the butcher who tried to conceal me or not. I am evidence. No, I am not, listen you, I’m not easily or readily washed off. Right? OK.