Some, though not all, of the wounds of Jesus have appeared upon your forearms.
All clocks read midnight and emit a high-pitched scream when you enter a room.
Your mother cannot see you. She can see your shadow; she can see the physical effects of your actions, as when you pick up a pencil or open a door, but you appear as nothing more than a faint and flickering outline to her.
All comets reverse direction.
In every history textbook, the paintings of all six wives of Henry VIII have been replaced by your eighth-grade yearbook picture. In every one of them, you are screaming.
Every single one of your ex-lovers finds themselves unable to properly cook eggs for twenty-four hours. The yolk breaks every time.
Emails cannot reach you.
The stubs of your vestigial wings will become faintly visible.
Candles will burn instantly down to the wick when you light them.
Wherever you lie down, an outline of pure salt will appear, and for generations after anyone who places themselves in the salt-tracing of your form will be cured of all manner of ailments.
It is physically impossible for you to be baptized. You can swim, but your head will not be submerged.
You will suddenly and with complete certainty be aware of exactly what you want to watch on Netflix right now. You will experience no doubt or regret about your decision.
Businessmen will be unable to cross your path – they will flee back to their offices and salad-bowl-assembly-line lunch meetings rather than walk across your footsteps.
Neither can you be guillotined. It is impossible for the integrity of your head to be compromised in any way during a menstrual cycle.
You will gain the added strength of one-and-one-half of your ancestors.
Medicine, criticism and bullets will have no effect on you.
Everything you touch will turn to kefir.
Mallory is an Editor of The Toast.