You and a friend have an idea for a story. You have an idea for dialogue, they an idea for a bit of plot. You two start to write and you have a blast. You're both thinking “OHMIGAWD THIS STORY IS GONNA BE SO, SO, SO COOL!!” Ideas are exchanged, critiques are given. It's a nice environment for you and your friend to bond, right? You show it to some friends or family, both of you, and they like it. Then, the friend asks you if it's okay for them to share the story with other people. You jokingly remind them to not hog all the glory. But, sort of not jokingly. If you're a serious writer, that story is something you slaved over, you just had extra help, input and ideas writing this story.

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I hate the stuff on soup and gravy. It's disgusting, looks ugly, feels awful and keeps you away from all the niceness underneath. I hate it. It's just downright nasty. Most people are confused when I look them over and say I hate it. It keeps you away from the liquid. What's not to hate?

I plan on doing something about it, though. Tonight. I'll stir it away, like Mom always advised me to. Well, not always. She told me not to.

I stir quickly, ripping the skin apart. The liquid comes up and so does a lot of other things. I eat the soup, the liquid. It tastes sweet, just a bit metallic. Undersalted, yes, but another thing I dislike is oversalted foods. It's tasty. It drips down my chin.

I feel dizzy as I look down at my arm, the skin completely removed, and smile. I hate skin.

I'm glad that I could make it go away.