Claustrophobic
Behind every day of uncontrollable laughter, there are at least five days of claustrophobia (thank you, Sean Penn). My four walls are composed of concrete and tremor-proof steel beams--narrow streets of people, walking and riding bicycles and mopeds; an impending fear that one day I will become a primate in a laboratory where the daily slayings of my own siblings, parents, and children do not register on my face: the doctors in charge of the experiments (for vaccinations, hair care products, etc.) let me out long enough to allow me to examine the lifeless bodies, then record that I simply lose interest and walk away expressionless--after nudging the corpses to no avail. I can see barely legible characters on a data sheet hanging from the clipboard across the room from my cage--they spell "NO MEMORY", and "NO TEARS". "Soulless perhaps".