Here I sit, picking the bacteria out of my pores� I had previously realized that I'd never done anything with my life and resigned myself to my room to think. Of course, the reflection on my life quickly turned into a staring contest with the wall - I won� but only because a fly landed on the wall's face and he blinked. Soon after that, I began toying with my skin. I got a magnifying glass to get a better view but, unfortunately, I didn't see a hint of mutation or anything interesting that could be going on with my skin. I was depressed.

I flipped on the television and I was immediately given the solution to all of my worldly problems - I saw an advertisement for Zoloft. Then I ran out of my room, straight through the wall, to the phone and made an appointment with my doctor. When I explained the urgency of my situation, he insisted that I shouldn't go anywhere and that he would be the one to do the driving. Although I was shocked enough to fall into, well, shock, I indicated my agreement with gasps for air and sharp exhalations.

Peter Wang, my doctor, is the next person I remember seeing. He apparently picked the lock on the front door and let himself in, only to find me on the floor. I was allegedly lying on the floor having a heart attack. Since he wasn't prepared for such an occurrence, he stood over there saying, very calmly, "You're going to die, but at least I get paid." And I, in fact, did die. After I was reincarnated into a tiny flower and was given sufficient time, I slowly became human once more. Anyway, Peter and I had a long conversation about my sudden depression and I asked if he would prescribe me Zoloft. Then Peter said no and had a sad song played on the world's smallest violin for me. I inquired as to who was playing the violin and he simply said, "Bacteria."

I was inspired. So inspired, in fact, that I picked Peter up and threw him out of the third story window of my two-floor home. My search for the world's smallest electric guitars, drum sets, microphones, and stereo systems began. Thankfully, E-bay has a plethora of things of that sort, so everything arrived in a couple of hours. (Platinum Government class mail definitely has its advantages.) Everything came neatly packaged and ready to be sucked up by micropipettes and placed on my skin, so I did just that. Before long, I could hear a bacterial rock band had formed on my shoulder.

The called themselves "Dust to Dust", but they sure weren't very Christian. All of their lyrics revolved around sex, drugs, and violence. This wasn't a great problem, of course, since most rock bands sing about those sang things anyway but the name just didn't seem to fit. Anyway, I noticed a horrible change starting to occur after the group had been together for roughly fifteen minutes: my skin was becoming a war zone. One of the lead singers in Dust to Dust was shot in the head, then the other members went off to drink away the sorrow left by their lost fame. Organized crime was on the rise, off-color businesses developed, and the economy was skyrocketing. I decided there was only one thing to do� so I did it. I took a shower and the bacteria drowned in the simulated rain, which was apparently acidic to them.

And here I sit, picking the bacteria out of my pores� tossing out the remnants of a band that literally had its fifteen minutes of fame.