I can see myself not being myself. My voice changes, my posture straightens, my bones scream. But it’s someone else. It’s a little boy named Skip with blond hair who picks his nose and talks of being an astronaut.

I am Mexican and this seems funny that I should see myself this way when I’m fat and fifty-five. I think it’s because I’m reclined on my couch, with my fourth beer and feeling sorry for myself. Pity causes me to change color.