The Day My Head Became a Carbonara Fountain

Arthur was meticulously buttering his toast, contemplating the existential dread of Tuesday mornings, when a peculiar dampness began to manifest directly above his scalp. He looked up. Hovering a mere six inches from his thinning hair was a cloud no larger than a particularly fluffy sheep, but distinctly more al dente. It wasn't raining water; it was raining perfectly cooked spaghetti with miniature meatballs, doused in a rich, fragrant carbonara sauce. Mittens, his ginger cat, materialized instantly, sniffing disdainfully at a rogue meatball that had landed on Arthur's slipper. "Too much pepper," Mittens seemed to convey with a withering stare, before delicately batting a piece of pancetta across the linoleum. Arthur, a man of quiet habits, simply sighed. "Well, that explains the sudden urge for Parmesan." His main concern wasn't the spontaneous pasta precipitation, but rather finding a colander large enough to protect his suit on his commute to the taxidermy museum. He wondered if his boss would accept "meteorological culinary anomaly" as an excuse for being late. He grabbed a napkin, sighing again. This was going to be an interesting morning.