Hmm a sensible continuation to an absurd situation? Sounds like fun fiction. > At the party, I poured myself a glass of lemonade, but it turned out to be too s

Hmm a sensible continuation to an absurd situation? Sounds like fun fiction. > At the party, I poured myself a glass of lemonade, but it turned out to be too sour, so I added a little sugar. I didn’t see a spoon handy, so I stirred it with a cigarette. But that turned out to be a bad idea because it promptly dissolved into my drink, creating a most unpleasant concoction, with an aroma which evoked memories of my grandfather's spittoon. I hoped no one had noticed, and promptly pocketed the cancer stick's wilted husk as discretely as I could manage. As I drew deep breaths from my potion's vapors, my mind was drawn into his small smoky study, and his form collected itself accross from me in his favorite leather lounge chair. I fell deeper into my nostalgia, pondering the unusual citrus scent in the air. Then, suddenly, I was ripped away from my reminiscing and pulled back to reality as a voice came calling, "sorry, can I help you?". I turned to see a tall handsome man, with ashy hair and sharp features, standing before me. It felt surprising intimate somehow, with just the two of us in the room now, while muffled sounds of other partygoers echoed from the house. The question's presentation seemed innocent enough at first, but I began to suspect that my faux pas had been found out. "Oh, thank you, not at all, I was just admiring the kitchen, beautiful craftsmanship," I replied, hoping my mundane alibi would suffice. "Oh I see, yes, we just recently renovated, what a nightmare," he said jovially. My hope for relief was extinguished as I realized who I was talking to, and I dove into my drink to bide my time. My face contorted, battling the horror, disgust, and protests of my tongue's unprepared palate. I could not think straight. My despair only deepened as I realized that in my lemonade-stirrer-seeking-mania I had picked that cursed stick from a pack adjacent the sugar bowl on the countertop, the same pack that the man in front of me was now fastidiously inspecting. How could I escape ...