0001 — RUMBUSTIOUS.

I highly recommend asking a snake (or a spider—I have nothing against spiders; spiders are great) how it feels to molt. The answer never fails to surprise me—not once, not ever: it sucks. It so fucking sucks. And now would you mind putting me back on the ground, you jerk? Thank you.

So eventually, and not without hesitation, I decided to give it a shot myself. Especially since it had become painfully clear that my skin was no longer capable of containing my ever-growing body—one that, even at forty-five, keeps expanding by at least half a centimeter every year.

Oddly enough, it’s a well-known fact that the human nose and ears never stop growing. That’s why so many old people—men, women, or wen—end up looking a bit like Hoggle from Labyrinth (1986). But not me. Somehow, I now have disproportionately small ears, even though I suffered in childhood as a Dumbo kid. My nose, on the other hand, has stayed more or less the same for the past twenty years—but I’m willing to bet that’ll change soon, as I’m almost certain it’ll just fall off in twenty or thirty years (I never liked it anyway).

Eyeballs are another strange case. They never grow. They remain the same size from childhood until you’re buried and ready to feed maggots or Satanists (just kidding; Satanists are actually cool, decent, progressive people—Google it).

Anyway, as I began to molt, all sorts of logistical complications arose. Not only is it painful and exhausting, but unlike toenail clippings or locks of hair, you can’t keep your old skin in little jars around your apartment or use it to stuff pillows and cushions—big chunks of dry skin don’t make for comfy filling material.

Full disclosure: I haven’t finished molting yet. I’m still dragging my old skin everywhere—a giant, crinkled fabric that, while not even smelly, tends to repulse people once they realize the strange shape poking from my boot isn’t a forgotten pair of underwear but a dry remnant of my own discarded humanity.

I don’t want to tear the old skin, which is why I haven’t separated it into pieces. I could cut it in half and wait until my legs are done, then stitch the upper half to the lower—but something about the seams feels wrong. And besides, I’m terrible with a needle and thread.

Will this transformation make me a better, wiser person? I hope so. Right now, I’m broken, in debt, and single. Ideally, those traits will stick with the old skin. Maybe the worst parts of me will stay behind with it.

In any case, one day soon, I’ll wake up fully renewed—reposed, light, and ready for the best years of my life.