In history there have been many displays of literary fortitude, yet few displays of sheer magnificence in that regard which transcend the reason of any discerning human. This my friends, is one of those displays.

The Exercise:

Describe a pottery class from the POV of the student, instructor and the clay.

The Result:

Why the fuck am I here? Was the naked people painting class really full or did someone just play a trick on me. Why is the instructor staring at me like that? Why is he calling my name? What’s that? Oh, he wants to know why I’m asking myself these questions. He probably wonders why he’s teaching a pottery class and why he never pursued a career as a librarian like he wanted. This clay feels like dead pussy. Not that I would know what that feels like but it can’t be very far off. Dead pussy’s probably stickier though. I bet the clay is wondering why I’m fondling it. Oh look, I just fucked the clay in it’s ass and it has no idea. Why are my hands falling off. I think I pissed off the clay. The instructor is calling an ambulance. The clay is getting sticky.

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