Every morning begins like this for me: I get up from my bed, groggy and stretching, and start to peel off my clothes. Over my head goes the sweatshirt, down go the pants. When I get down to grubby ankle socks and boxers, I start reaching for the back of my neck. My fingers sink down until they find a hold, and I start unraveling layers of skin like an onion. This is a lengthy process; I can't just unwind the skin in one great sheath like some folks can do with an orange peel. It would certainly be easier if I could, but I've done it this way forever and I don't want to screw things up.


When I get down to the muscle and bone I start to fold up my shapeless skin and drop it into the laundry basket by my door. I'm extra careful when I pick up the basket and push open the door, because I'd rather not wake my roommate, Kristina. I don't think she'd really care if she saw me like this, but she absolutely hates waking up before nine on a weekend. 

The washing room is across the hall from the bathroom, which works out pretty well for me. It's a tiny dingy room with a washer and dryer and not much else. I peered into the washing machine, then dumped my socks and boxers into the depth below. I look at the baggy folds of skin in my laundry basket; these are clearly hand-wash only.

I push open the door across the hall and start to run a bath. As the water gets bubbling at the sides of the tub, my fingers get to work, unhooking organs and dropping them in. In goes my skin, and I'm scrubbing at it with the potato brush. The water hisses with steam.