A swim would be nice

I awoke this morning, early by most standards, to find I had become Gregor Samsa, but unrecognizable to all those who know him. In either form. I don't recall any unusual dreams in the night. There were no sudden wakings in cold sweats, pillow cases unfomfortably clammy and damp. It had been a decent night's sleep, so what had happened? What indeed? Why? I just assumed (always a risky, yet daring endeavor for me) that there was an inherent no-trade clause in the contract. At least an implied one. It could have been something I ate. What did I have for dinner? Peanuts at the baseball game. Only peanuts. Not just any peanuts though, but outside peanuts, smuggled through the entry gate to avoid paying ballpark prices. Forbidden peanuts just taste a little better for the risk. And water, also from without. Water is water and tastes the same, forbidden or not, like water. I even skipped my usual snow cone, more often than not, cherry. Now, cherry snow cones at baseball games on hot summer evenings are to die for! Who would have thought that would lead to this? Who could have? Obviously, not me. Still, I was a bit satisfied. Afterall, if I was going to find myself in one of Kafka's works, better a short story than The Trial. It all has the same absurd intensity, or rather, intense absurdity, it's just more concise. Nevertheless, I'm staying clear of that oversized roach motel in the back room. It doesn't have a pool.