I might never get any better and never get any worse. I think that I might be consistently below average for ever. I am a straight, non-sloping line on a graph, written in green ink.
I am a set of data on excel. The data is slightly not quite good enough.
I might have a wasting disease. I am wasting. There is nothing which is not wasting. Everything I do has been wasted. I am in a wasteland. A thinning, cold, anaemic wasteland. I am trapped in my bed. I am on pills.