Die. No really, DIE. Now. Slowly, painfully, and with a horrific grinding hopelessness only matched by the collapse of your internal organs.
May you contract virulent Small Pox, and your internal body systems begin to detriorate. Essentially, your intestines and stomach rot, while still alive. Then, we'll inject you with antibiotics, so that you can live a little longer, starving to death, without a path past your mouth for food. You cheeks will shrink inwards. Your ribs protrude from your thinning chest. Your hair will oddly grey, then fall out.
Then, the Princess Bride takes over:
"To the pain means that first you lose your feet below your ankles. Then, your hands at the wrists. Next your nose. [...] The next thing you'll lose is your left eye followed by your right. [...]
"Your ears you keep! And I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish, every babe that weeps at your approach, every one woman that cries, 'Dear God, what IS that thing?!' will echo in your perfect ears."
Then, like Oedipus, you must wander the streets and highways of where-ever, blind and mute, until at last the furies find you.
At last, you may think, the furies and the refreshingly cold embrace of death, but wait. You reach those pearly gates, peering through, only to find, God is a Middle-Eastern woman. You recoil, and fall a thousand eternities in the meaningless abyss.
Forever.