When a fish falls from the ceiling, you pay attention. You enter a place of such keen sobriety that you feel you've spent every previous moment in your life drunk: your seventh birthday, that time you burned chicken and ruined your friend's favorite pan, the countless uneventful seconds spent consuming television and prepackaged foodstuffs. All become a piece of the drunken haze hereafter understood as "then" as in, "the time before a fish fell from the ceiling". Because once a fish falls from your ceiling, you're a changed person.
First, you look to see from whence the fish came, but the present tense is currently a bees' hive of nouns all verbing for your attention. A fish flopping. A friend, gesturing. A hand shaking. Drips of water covering the floor near the fish. You should do something more than this. You should be mopping perhaps, or calling up some team of scientists to solve this mystery.
Anyway, enough about what you should be doing. Here's what I did: I put the fish in my bathtub, because god damn it my miracle fish was not going to die until I felt like I'd figured out all there was to figure out, and effectively squeezed as much education from this life moment as possible.
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