Laura wrangles a garden hose.

I took cover in an alleyway next to a flower shop, the damp asphalt chilled my bare knees as I crouched behind a dumpster, my pulse thundering in my ears. Behind me, a coiled green hose glistened under the afternoon sun, its metal nozzle already threaded onto an outdoor faucet. Where an ocean bath had failed, perhaps a high pressure shower would succeed in loosening the glue.

The owners of the flower shop no doubt watered their plants on the regular, so I'd have to be quick. Frantically stomping on the tap lever, I felt it shoot past the sweet spot. The hose exploded to life, writhing across the pavement like an electrified eel, its high-pressure arc drenching my chest before I could react. Fearful that the ruckus I was making was already drawing attention, I threw myself onto it, thighs clamping around the flailing nozzle as cold water sprayed in erratic bursts against my skin. Each unsteady adjustment only succeeded in redirecting the stream directly at my crotch, and I became too… overwhelmed to move it any further.

Reality snapped back into focus as the tap was turned off, and I found myself locked in mutual recognition with a florist tapping impatiently at her phone screen, no doubt planning on calling the cops. I bolted—or attempted to—only for my soaked soles to betray me. I slipped and fell face-first into a ceramic pot large enough to accommodate most of my upper body. I flailed uselessly as I heard the florist's footsteps approaching.

"You know what?" She mused to herself, "I think I have a better idea." The unmistakable scratch of a marker tip on damp skin confirmed what my upside-down vantage point couldn't: I'd become an impromptu floral display.

Google later revealed the full humiliation—legs helicoptering above the rim of a pot, with a 20% discount on perennials written on my left butt cheek. Every passing pedestrian seemed contractually obligated to administer a commemorative spank. No one helped, as my backside had become immediately recognizable thanks to it's spotlight at the pier.

Yet my thrashing limbs turned out to be my saving grace. What seemed like an eternity later, I finally got the pot to topple over. Since the road sloped downward, the damn thing immediately started careening downhill. Trapped inside, I bounced along the pavement as my guts somersaulted within me. I could vividly imagine the streetlights and storefronts blurring into nauseating streaks of color as my momentum carried me past gawking pedestrians, their half-eaten sandwiches and shopping bags forgotten while they collectively witnessed my wide open legs and my third public disgrace of the afternoon.