She is currently having some kind of nervous breakdown and wishes she'd been born black, male and more attractive. Or just more attractive. Or just different. Just someone fucking else. She ceases to continue with the day to day farce of getting through the next few hours in an attempt to ward off the fact that she doesn't know how to get through the next forty years. She's talking about herself in the third person because the idea of being who she is, of acknowledging that she is herself, is more than her pride can take. She's sick to the fucking gills of herself and wishes wishes wishes that something would happen to make life begin.