I think I may be mutating. Not into anything as heroic, cool, or practical like Iceman or the Wolfman. Not even into a Brundle-Fly. Nasty as that would be, at least I could dispatch my foes with mighty stomach acid and slurp them up all gone. Alas, a super-powered life is not in my future. Not in the near future, anyway.

The evidence of my mutation occurred just the other day when a furious zit along my left jaw line ripened. Not being the sort that can pass up a chance to pop such a righteous pimple, nor the repugnant pride at the distance and consistency of the pus ejaculate, I popped it. That euphoric feeling hit me just like after a tremendous shit; you know, all empty, cold in the belly, and a little bit giddy. But there was more to this pimple. Underneath the bloody seepage was a hair; the culprit of this dermal demon.

Quickly, I doused a needle and tweezers with a bit of alcohol. (I have fecal fear, and a bathroom is sick with it. It gets airborne, you know. I'm no fool.) Gingerly, I picked and poked at my flesh until the hair in question surfaced. And surface it did! By God... it was several hairs if not a dozen fused together in a hard horn of whisker. For nearly an hour I stared at it in the mirror, running my fingers over the strange and mystifying growth. Twanging it like a guitar string sent my facial nerves aflutter in pleasure and minor irritation.

Finally, I plucked it. It came out with a fierce tug and a good bit of meat. I let out a weak yelp, immediately feeling a sense of loss. I was my own X-file. With the scrutiny of Scully I inspected my prize, and with Mulder's enthusiasm wondered aloud the possibilities: "Am I mutating?" The real question is will it come back, and, if it does, will it come back stronger? I hope so.

The distance of the pus plug: three feet, four inches. Fuck, yeah! A new record! The horn is resting safely in a small plastic box that once held a Mexican jumping bean.