I can always give myself a funny feeling by picturing what my skeleton is doing. It startles me that I have a skeleton at all. Skeletons are another species, it seems to me, beings of a drily humorous sort, antic fellows who can't keep track of all their parts. They are whole unto themselves. My skeleton doesn't need me, I think. It's waiting me out, tolerating my spasms, my ambitions. When I am kissing someone and our teeth bump together, jarring us both, I think: our skeletons touched.