He can’t shake a person’s hand for fear of being contaminated by it. He is himself so revolting that one winces at the idea of his touch.
At some point in the distant past he came into contact with his loathsomeness. Disgust with his fat. Anger at the blotches of his skin. The awful shape of his lips.
He buries his awfulness under a wig. A thin disguise. It is his mother’s hair — he is her baby; he wears her pussy on his head.
Their last moment of contact.
A hirsute emblem for his boundary problems.
Because he cannot contain himself, in the middle of the night he furtively cycles through a handful of stock obsessions. These are public figures — people who are loved, powerful, charming. People who appear to be at ease with themselves and with the world. People he sees as having what he deserves, people he sees as not getting what they deserve.
Because everything we have is his, we should have nothing. A storm of debt, he is himself less than nothing. He sucks the world down a gold toilet — we are, in this story, so much shit.
He commissions a ritual in a fancy hotel: he makes ‘whores’ piss on those he hates. He sits in a chair at the edge of the room. He does not touch a thing — not even his own horrible self.