Holy crap.

Holy CRAP.

HOLY FRICK FRACKING CRAP.

Peter Parker was on the ceiling.

How was he on the ceiling? He had no idea.

Well, he had some idea. He knew how he got there, one sticky hand at a time, but he wasn't sure how he got there. People couldn't just attach themselves to ceilings.

This had to be a dream, a very strange dream. Everything else had to be a dream then too, right? The glasses, the dodgeball game, this situation. Peter's entire day had been full of strange occurrences but this? Let's just say he was thankful Aunt May workin late today.

Shaking himself into the reality of his situation, strange as it was, Peter took a few deep breathes and tried to figure out how the hell he got on the ceiling!

It took him a while, but Peter finally calmed down. Refocusing, he imagined his fingers peeling off the water-stained ceiling of his small bedroom. Instantly, his hands detached and he felt himself drop; mostly. His bare feet still held firmly to the ceiling, seemingly mocking him. Great. Now Peter was stuck, scared, and upside down.

Arms dangling, Peter attempted to unstick his right foot to no avail. He tried again, this time using more force. Nothing. Finally, Peter pulled his leg toward the ground using all his might. This worked, technically. The only problem was now Peter had a hole in his room and a chunk of ceiling plastered on the bottom of his right foot. Oh, and he was still hanging like a rag doll thanks to his left foot, which might as well been superglued next to the ceiling fan.

Now more determined than confused, Peter tried to dislodge his left foot by jumping from the ceiling to the ground. This attempt worked surprisingly well, and he ended up in a heap on the floor. His head collided with the edge of his desk and Peter let out a small yelp of pain.

"Everything alright in there?" Aunt May called from the kitchen.

Crap, May. She couldn't know about this, she'd freak! Peter glanced up at his damaged ceiling and decided to keep whatever just happened under wraps. At least until he figured it out for himself. The last thing he needed was to be poked, tested, and worried over by dozens of doctors.

May entered Peter's room to find him sitting on the floor, rubbing his forehead.

"What happened? I heard you fall, did you hit your head?" May's words were laced with concern. It comforted Peter, but also worried him. If May was this concerned over a little bump on the head, imagine how she'd react if she knew how he got it.

"I'm fine, I just tripped," Peter sputtered out. His voice was shaky from his nerves and he feared May would pick up on his lie. Peter snuck his right foot, the one with bits of ceiling coating it, under a hoody laying next to him on the floor.

She gave him a bit of a side eye, like she knew he wasn't telling the whole truth, before glancing around his messy room. Thank goodness her eyes never drifted far enough up to catch the hole in the ceiling.

"No wonder you tripped-this room is a mess!" May scolded. Then her "serious parent face" fell and was replaced with an amused smile. Peter always had been a bit clumsy.

"Alright kid," May consoled, "let's go to the kitchen and get you some ice before your head bruises."

On the way to the freezer, Peter thanked the universe that no more of his appendages got stuck to furniture.