Okay, so I started off with a short story I've been working on--real surreal stuff--but then I decided to make a sculpture, but it kept looking at me funny, then an octopus attached itself to my face and I fell out the window while struggling to get it off my face, and I landed in the back of a hay truck, where a pig stamped my ticket (twice, by accident) and pushed me out of the truck when we took a turn by a cliff--I flew fifty miles up in the air, banged up against the Fox News satellite and plummeted, and instead of dying, landed on top of a cop car--and it died, and I rolled over, shook hands with the octopus (commending it for a fight well fought) and we both went our separate ways--him back to Russia and me back to my surrealist short story.
(I meant that in earnest... Sorry if it sounded sarcastic.) Really what I'm working on now is my preface. I'm treating it as a process paper with a works cited page.
Tougaw had a bad idea. He sent me after books about surrealism. Naughty, naughty Tougaw. (Go to your room.) I went to the library and I felt like a fried egg with a paper cocktail umbrella sticking into it at a forty-three degree angle in a walrus theme park. Now I have twenty books at home that make me giggle whenever I look at them. Thanks a lot, Felix.