Since posting the page (around the beginning of 1997) I have received well over 1000 e-mails from people around the world, some telling me in shocking detail about their own stories, a few warning me about an even worse strain of the disease called Pityriasis Rubra Pilaris, and a bewildering amount requesting "more information."

For those wanting more information, all I can say is that I apologize the internet failed you. I'm no skin doctor. I'm a musician and computer programmer. You know as much as I do about all this. Maybe you can glean some useful tidbits from my story. Maybe not. Good luck.

Anyway, on with the show..

November rolled around, the entire campus wrapped up their midterms and got geared up to party down until Thanksgiving break. One of the biggest drunken gatherings of this period was to happen at my very own abode. Me and the guys already planned for the big bash to happen the weekend after next. I grew very excited about this party-to-be, enough that I ignored the two or three spots on my chest which have been lingering harmlessly for days.

The day two of my housemates trekked to Pennsylvania to score some grain alcohol I entertained my parents who came into town for the day to visit. In need of a conversation topic, I presented my dad with the funny red marks on my torso, and followed with the inquiry, "what the hell is this?" His quick and definitive conclusion was I had some kind of fungus infection and should get some antibiotic right away. Yuck. On hindsight, I think the only evidence my father had to determine the cause of my spots had to be my messy, and therefore contaminated, bedroom.

I waited anxiously until Monday for the campus infirmary to open to get some medication for my personal fungus garden. Meanwhile the six or seven cute dots hiding under my chest hair have grown into an unsightly army of a couple dozen lesions covering the area between my navel and nipples.

The nurse led me to an examination room and she seemed more or less uninterested in my story of infection until the moment I took off my shirt to show her the damage done. Her expression turned from complete and utter apathy to total giddy surprise. "Oh, wow!" she said. "Oh, wow!" she repeated, and then summed up, "I have to go get the doctor." And as she disappeared my mind reeled with all the possible horrible outcomes of my affliction, an affliction so extreme it warranted having to go get the doctor.

"That's a pretty classic case," the doctor said first thing upon viewing my condition. This statement totally begged the question, "Of what?" The nurse happily fielded this question. "Pityriasis rosea," she said.

Before I could attempt to echo the name of my new disease I was presented with some photocopied info about it. I quickly gleaned I've been housing a relatively harmless virus and not some gnarly fungus, which made me happy. The doctor interrupted my reading, telling me pityriasis rosea causes funny red spots to form on a person's trunk, as high as the neck and as low as the knees, but never reaching the hands, feet, or face. But other than that it's a cute and fun-loving pathogenic microorganism.

This was all well and good, but I had a party to host in five days. According to the cable television I watched up until this point there existed a strong possibility my shirt would need to come off at some point during this party, either during an embarrassing drunken episode, or in a fit of sexual passion. Not like I ever got drunk enough to rip my clothes off in public or ever hooked up with anybody at a social gathering, but when you're young you think there's always hope. Anyway, I needed a cure and needed it fast. "So how do I get rid of it?" I asked.

"Oh, it'll just run its course in about 6 to 8 weeks," said the nurse.

"So there's no cure?" I whined.

"No."

By the day of the party the spots have made it onto my arms, peeking out from under the sleeves of my t-shirts. One pioneer spot had also made its way onto my neck for all to behold. If I desired to conceal my awkward epidermal situation the only solution was to wear a turtleneck. However, I refused to do this since tall, gangly dorks with long hair should never wear such awful clothing. It was a moot point anyway since I didn't own any goddamn turtlenecks. I came to terms with the fact I was a freak and drank grain punch all night. During the course of the evening I acquired the nickname "Spot." How clever my friends.

Under normal circumstances pityriasis rosea could be a painless and interesting experience, kind of like chicken pox without the fever and itching. However, as the spots consumed my entire torso, an incredibly bad winter consumed all of upstate New York. My skin gets very dry in the cold, and this caused the more sensitive areas to itch. Plus the water in Binghamton is so full of harsh chemcals that untreated sea water is safer to bathe in and drink. Every time I showered it felt like somebody had attempted to remove my spots with a belt sander.

My only recourse was lotion, which I applied every morning and night. Lotion aggravated the pityriasis rosea to the point I felt as if I was on fire. I have fond memories of applying lotion to my entire body and then lying naked on my bed waiting for the hellish burning. Sometimes it took a good five minutes to kick in. When it did I would writhe on my bed, moaning, almost screaming, and biting my pillow. As it peaked I considered how much more pleasurable it would be to bake to death in a kiln. After the fire disappeared, the ceaseless itching didn't seem all that bad.

The whole episode peaked during finals. The spots reached down to my knees, as high as my chin and, to the great amusement of my housemates, onto a certain private portion of my anatomy. I found it difficult to hold a conversation with anybody as they stared in horror at the ring of pox around my neck. Pityriasis rosea is not at all contagious, but no matter how hard I tried to convince people of this they still maintained their stance a few extra feet away.

When the virus finally had enough of me it began to die off. The good news was the spots, one by one, slowly turned from reddish brown to my natural pale skin tone. The bad news was after they converted color they peeled off like a sunburn. For about a week I had cute little pockets of dead flesh dangling all over my body.

On the bright side this happened during winter break while I was away from my college friends and hanging out with the high school buddies back home, one of whom had aggravated hemorrhoids and therefore he took the spotlight off my unsightly skin for a while. By the time I arrived back in Binghamton for the spring semester, my body was more or less back to normal, though it wasn't until March that all traces of my pet virus vanished completely.

The doctor said once you get pityriasis rosea you are immune to it from then on. This almost makes me sad as I write this little story. If the truth be told, I miss my spots and wish I could have them back for a day. But just one day. Well, maybe just an hour or two.

For the sake of educating my dear readers, I'd like to point out a few things about my experience and others from around the world relayed to me via piles of e-mail. Maybe this may answer a question or two you may have.

• First and foremost, it is the unfortunate truth that you can get this disease again. One person wrote to me saying they got it more than twice. It is such an uncommon affliction that doctors may assume that getting it twice is statistically impossible, but I've gotten enough evidence to support the opposite. So if you're worried about getting it again, um.. sorry if I got your hopes up. I wouldn't lose any sleep over it, though.

• Supposedly these spots don't like the sun very much - which is why they don't appear on your face or other exposed extremities. Some people went to tanning salons and raved to me about the positive results. But take this with a grain of salt since one or two people wrote to me saying they did get a couple spots on their face. Maybe these people never go outside. Who knows? As I said I'm no doctor.

• In my case, the spots faded after about 3 months, and completely disappeared without a trace a month or so after that. This seems to be the common order of things. However, a few people told me they have spots that have been lingering a lot longer, some as much as years. I imagine that's due to other factors outside of just the virus. I repeat: Who knows?