Admittedly, I have some anxiety problems, but I would argue it isn’t irrational to be concerned about the fact that you are a skin-encased bacterial colony.
Mychal said, “His dad was about to be arrested for bribery or something, but the night before the raid he disappeared.
There’s a hundred-thousand-dollar reward out for him.” “And you know his kid,” Daisy said.
“Knew him,” I answered. I watched Daisy attack her school-provided rectangular pizza and green beans with a fork.
She kept glancing up at me, her eyes widening as if to say, Well?
I could tell she wanted me to ask her about something, but I couldn’t tell what, because my stomach wouldn’t shut up,
which was forcing me deep inside a worry that I’d somehow contracted a parasitic infection.
I could half hear Mychal telling Daisy about his new art project,
in which he was using Photoshop to average the faces of a hundred people named Mychal,
and the average of their faces would be this new, one-hundred-and-first Mychal, which was an interesting idea,
and I wanted to listen, but the cafeteria was so loud,
and I couldn’t stop wondering whether there was something wrong with the microbial balance of power inside me.
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