Headed into the mens room, sat for a bit on the stool, took care of business, washed my hands, pulled a sheet of paper from the dispenser. That’s when it happened: a new sheet rolled out. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe the first piece was a little small; maybe my hands were still damp. I tore off the second piece. The dispenser spit out another, and another, and wouldn’t stop. Seconds later, I have a tongue of paper decorating the counter and floor. The dispenser continues. I’m bury up to my knees. Surely the roll will run out soon. I’m up to my waist and struggling to trudge to the exit. I slip on something and disappear beneath the rising tide of brown paper.