Falling on my ass in the pile of dog shit

Falling on my ass in the pile of dog shit would have given a refreshing sense of finality to the night but my reflexes kicked in and I spun in the air, landing on my hands and feet

on top of a hot tin roof. I meowed at the allusion, but was rubbed the wrong way because no one else was there to witness a once in lifetime thing where life imitates are, but

where 'ar' comes without the 't' at the end, and indeed with a replacement 'e'. So is it really art? Flummoxed by this Orwellian dilemma, I looked to Kafka for inspiration.

Kafka had this thing about giant bugs with melancholic central European dispositions, and I realized there'd be no inspiration there. Art is timeless, so I expanded my

consciousness/umbrella and walked headlong into the downpour. At first, I'll admit, I didn't

feel the wetness, but then I looked up. In the clouds was a giant with a white beard looking down at me. "I am crying for your sins." Boy, that really put the pressure on me.

reading in unison the entire Book of Lamentations which was really just disheartening for everybody. The giant sat on my face, which wasn't fun like when I tell ladies to do it.

Having a giant on your face is more weight than your face was meant to handle. He crushed my head until I had a flat head, but at least it was difficult to hear him reading now.

He read the story of Flatland. The irony was lost on me since my brain was a pancake.