I'll stand in that queue with you.
I think I know who I am, but I don't really see why it matters.
"I feel a bit low."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you know. When there's always a tear waiting in the corner of your eye and you bump into furniture and everything breaks in your hands and no one notices you and you're just a dry, anonymous sexless cog devoid of feeling, imagination and spark. A bit like that."
Slog on.