Ascetic.

Most of the time, I'm an ascetic paragon of restraint; brutally, I constrain myself to occupy the strict steel frame I build according to the niche it will fill among life's cogs and wheels. Denying everything but the master plan, I sever parts of my personality that don't belong, leaving what in my wildest dreams will be called a machine. Hollow, I proudly classify myself, until, rarely, I spring a leak. Embarrassed, this compels me to remember that there is hot, dark liquid inside: fallibility, jealousy, self-doubt, and an insatiable desire for approval.
The ascetic watches, disgusted, as the emotions she denies flow from the tiny hole in a continuous, radioactive stream. With cold, admirable efficiency, she slides nitrile gloves over her hands, plugs the hole, and attempts to take inventory of the self she has left. The catch is that she doesn't know how much self she had to begin with, so there's no way to determine how much is lost.