Like at least one other writer, I have bad skin. It does the unforgivable trick of itself all over my body. My body made of bones. It goes around my body being skin and starting small fires. I can feel it on the back of my neck, over the vertebrae, just sitting there, starting fires and being bad. Bad skin. It grows all the way down to my feet, you know, it sits there and it grows and it reaches my feet and starts fires. It is bad skin. It’s almost 6:00 and it, my bad skin, is still sitting there at work. I asked it to stop, the work, go home, but it’s been ignoring me for fifteen years. I’ve learned as much about this skin as i think I can, but it’s like trying to draw a map of a map of the moon without a telescope, but at the exact same time, at the exact same time, the whole thing is like looking at a plant cell under the microscope. Just one. One big, beige, plant cell. I’ve tried covering it in pictures to distract your eyes, but most of them are bad too. I just put out a fire on my shoulder where an old cat hides thirsty. And you know, the whole time I’ve been sitting here, my skin has been too, pretending to be me.