To be honest things weren’t going so well even before the head started coming out of my floor. I was unemployed and universally hated thanks to some choices I’d made. Afternoons I’d go sit in this median strip a few blocks from my apartment and write things in my notebook while cars barreled past. Sometimes I brought a guitar.

First it was just a soft patch. I figured maybe, you know, the floor was rotting. What did I know about floors?