You don’t need to stare -one, two, three, four- at me like I’m some sort of science experiment. A freak of nature, just as amazing and depressing as a third-grade paper-mache volcano, spewing numbers and tics like baking soda and vinegar. Feeling them crawl out of my mouth- scratch, scratch, scratch- like tiny spiders that hatched under my tongue. Check, check, check, and check again like a paranoid amnesiac. I don’t need you to point out that -tap, tap, tap- like it’s a disease. As if you could somehow catch my illness by breathing in the same particles of air that have become intimate with my lungs. If only it was that easy.