In the morning, I felt much better, although there was still a sticky, viscous layer of the stuff on some of my clothing, and looking at it made me feel waves of disgust and longing well up within me; very unusual. I looked down at my hands and saw that they had become webbed, except the webbing was made of Harry’s mucus.

I went to the bathroom and turned on the shower while I brushed my teeth so it would be warm by the time I finished. I hoped desperately that my boss, Mr. LaBeouf, Mr. Shia LaBeouf, would accept me for my spider obsession.

The smooth, slimy layer remaining on my clothing had crept up while I wasn’t looking, and now covers my webbed hands. Oddly, it created a translucent layer, making it seem like my webs had disintegrated. It was impossible not to admire Shia LaBeouf ’s Shia LaBeef. He told me that he liked my Shia LaMuff, but only after I told him that I like it Shia LaRough, and with plenty of Shia LaButtStuff. Anyway, Shia LaEnough said. As he pulled out, I couldn’t help but think, did I leave my car lights on?

As I step into the shower, I feel Shia’s supple arms grope my torso. Oh no. I was able to slip out of his grasp because of the goo still covering my now naked body; I think I am excreting it. Shia was unfazed. “Webbed hands are a dynamic look on you, sugar tits,” he noted, even though he knows I’m sensitive about my mastectomy. Guys get em too. “Gonorrhea,” I said, and looked away. Suddenly, Shia LaBeouf started changing shape.

I watched in horror as he gradually transformed into Donald Trump. “I am Shia LaBeouf,” he said. “In fact, I exist in 32 other forms as well, all of whom are working together to implement a new world order.”

“If you’re such a rockstar shape shifter, Mr. LaBeouf, Mr. Shia LaBeouf, why do all of your forms look skeezy as fuck?” I asked, menacingly. One of his eyeballs then popped out, and a stray dog snatched it up and gobbled it down. He regurgitated it and fed his young.