And if they cut part of my face off, this is what I値l tell them: I値l tell them it was an old war injury, war being football, injury being arbitrary, as no one second-guesses injuries in battle. I値l tell them about the fractions and the fractures and the fractals that came pouring out, jagged edges found on black and white contrasted X-Rays, mouths looking like poorly split open fish, peaks and valleys, spikes and gaps. I値l tell you that it was a long time coming, this fusion of myself and metal, that maybe after I degauss I can degauss monitors, causing Technicolor ripples and warping, before snapping back like a skeleton puppet with noodle tubes for skin and elastic string for bones. Or maybe I値l tell you that it was a construction injury, that a metal beam, no, scaffolding, no air-conditioning duct, no sheet-metal, yes, sheet-metal jumped up from the ground and bit me, creating the smoothest and cleanest cut you ever did see. I got lucky, I値l say. Or fate has precision, I値l say. Or I値l change the subject to how you hate the idea of sharing tactile diaries, that the world is such a strange place with all of this information floating around and no place to put it. Dangerous, you値l say, and I値l say it is no more dangerous than helping fathers with construction three days before New Years. I tell myself this is the way of the future.