May is the month in which a young gentleman’s thoughts turn to those of fancy. Love floats on the breeze like a cheap perfume. I have spent the last few weeks searching, in vain, for a date to the prom. Perhaps it is not in the cards, but as I have already booked a limo and hotel room, I am loath to waste them, so now I am combing the Yellow Pages for the city’s finest whores. Unfortunately, many of them already have dates to the prom themselves. I may be relegated to punch bowl duty.

This morning I discovered that a pair of wings had sprouted out of my back. They were small, maybe a wingspan of just a couple feet. Still, I thought it would be an interesting experiment to see if I could fly to work. I leaped out the window of my second-story apartment and landed on the pavement with a resounding thud. As I stood up I realized that I had forgotten to cut holes in the back of my shirt for the wings to poke through. I went back upstairs to change shirts, as the shirt I had on, as well as having no wing-holes, was also covered in blood from my fall (I had apparently landed in a puddle of blood). I put on a new shirt, cut some holes in the back for the wings to poke through, and leapt out my window again. Once again I dropped like a rock. I lay on the ground and wonder what I could have possibly done wrong that time. I realized that I needed to build up speed to get the proper lift. I ran down my street at top speed, and as I felt the wind catching my wings, a car appeared in my path. Aha! I thought. Perfect timing! I’ll just take off right before the car hits me. I jumped into the air and came crashing down through the windshield. I dangled over the dashboard, looking at the driver, who had been bombarded with shards of glass somehow, and thought, well, maybe I’ll try again tomorrow.