On Skin Shedding

The snake sheds its skin, the surface layer in dire need of renewal. The dead cells are picked up by necrophiliac beastiality-fueled skin collectors to then have their wicked way with them.
"To each their own," said a wise man once before putting his penis into a double serving of mashed potatoes (with spinach, I believe).
The snakes don't mind, and nor do the potatoes, who already endured enough hardship as it is, what with being boiled and mashed alive. Recycling is a hot topic these days, even in the wondrous world of kink.

So, the megalomaniac in me believes a stalker is following me. Well, that megalomaniac actually knows it, regardless of whether it is true or not. There is plenty of evidence all around. When I am sure I did my dishes, folded my clothes and hung them up nicely, I sometimes find myself puzzled seeing a whole bunch of dishes towering up in the sink and beyond, clothes being scattered about, and - wait for it - my dead skin tray strangely empty (knowing that I had filled it up with my own snakeskin).

I'm not making the effort to find out who this person is so I can get a restraining order. I can't imagine this going well in court anyway: "This person is following me and I kind of like it! Please give her the electric chair! (...) What?! You don't electrocute people any more? Oh well, then I guess there's nothing that can be done..." (turns head towards stalker:) "So do you want a ride? You're going my way anyway, right?" I'm already so far past that phase, you can't even see the mashed potatoes anymore.

But I keep shedding skin and placing it where it has to be, realising that this stalker probably now has enough of it to puzzle together an identical copy of me. I don't feel like a snake, however. For starters, I don't eat things that are bigger than my mouth. Okay, maybe that one time when I wanted to swallow a massive vodka-watermelon combo, but I can assure you that I failed horribly.

But I look at the traces before it is discarded and used in my stalker's weird sexual fantasy playworld. I stroke it and say goodbye to it, thanking the elements for their presence there (though I should probably thank myself who ate the damn molecules that made their way down there!). I measure the size of the canyons and log them in my Skin Canyon Data File (the file is public, because I don't want to make it to hard on the stalker, you see).

You know how they say that amputees sometimes still feel their missing limb? Well, that's kind of what I feel on a skin surface level. These little cells that I came to know and love (or in the case of my hand, loved me back on occasion) stay with me every time another one of them moves on. I can still feel all of them, pulsating around, thinking about our times together.

The cycle is endless, or at least seemingly so. But at one point, we will reach the final layer, and then my stalker's work will be complete; a fully fleshed statue with all layers carefully joined back together again.

When that happens, I shall finally look this stalker up and jump in the body suit she has created.

That way, things can start all over again, right?