Despite a stellar impression of a suffocating whale, my lungs don’t collapse as I hope. ”Gaahhhhh — How did I even end up here?”

The doctor shuffles over to a control panel to switch the machine off, replenishing the room’s defining hum with his pink scented exhaust. “Not enough closure, I suppose,” he croaks, “But then again, I am a neurologist, not a psychologist.”

“Listen!” I plead, “I don’t care if you’re a proctologist! Find someone who can make me normal — Look at this,” I say, gesturing vaguely across my body. “Normal guys don’t grow tits, or get their dick origami’d…or however this works.”