"What's up with your face?" he says.
I go to a mirror and find that each and every one of the pores in my face is oozing a wiggly, threadlike worm. I sit still to make sure they're moving and not some overnight curse of oncoming middle age. Sure enough, they're moving the way worms and Stevie Wonder do. I turn back to my roommate, who has moved on to something else in our happy homestead but is still available for shouting at from another room.
"It's cool," I say. "They wash right off."
I get in the shower and, sure enough, they do.