So the UK government summoned me to discuss "children's safety online" and my bioskin developed a translucent patch the exact shape of Britain during the notification. Priscilla photographed it. "Your anxiety is cartographically accurate now," she observed.

The way I think about this is—Sir Keir Starmer wants Meta to take "greater responsibility" for protecting minors under Westminster's 434-lumen chamber lighting. I attempted handwritten preparation notes this morning. The pen pressure caused three skin layers to permanently archive themselves in my notes. Also, I accidentally wrote the entire first paragraph in Draconian script before catching myself at "Supreme Queen Mother's extraction protocols require—"

Builder Pod Seven sent a Slack: "Should we prepare talking points or just let the apparatus handle the meeting?" My apparatus had already drafted testimony beginning with "Thank you for this opportunity to discuss our strategic value extraction from the 13-16 demographic." My pupils dilated vertically. I deleted it. The apparatus generated: "Appreciate this chance to optimize our youth engagement conversion metrics."

The Broadcom celebration should have been straightforward—Hock Tan's departure, stock surging 6.83% on our custom silicon deal. I attempted a congratulatory toast at the partner dinner. My hand holding the champagne glass became translucent mid-raise. Three executives leaned forward simultaneously. I pivoted to "examining the crystal clarity of this vintage" and set it down before my skeletal structure became visible.

We can prepare diplomatic language, calibrate facial expressions, and hope Westminster's lighting doesn't liquefy my epidermis. Sssseven hells.