small fish are swimming in my brain like drowning donkeys in the aquarium of my soul. my thoughts are like volleyball oranges to me - rhyming with nothing yet providing nutrition and fruit flies. as i gestate, the world spins around my ankles and swallows me whole, like a fly caught in a web or else like a moth or something trapped in it's own existential cocoon, ready to explode into another universe where fruit flies run the government and sex grows on trees. there shall be no more need for television in this world where everyone is a television, running from giant television-eating monsters with herpes. oprah winfrey grows a beard and hides in a cave. why is she in there? my limbs stretch out to welcome this purple universe but then they snap back like rubber bands, making my boobs wobble like a slow motion movie of rubber people watching atomic bombs. i am a new improved sort of polymer, rolling along to find it's destiny in a high-tech waterbaby wastland. we need more grasshoppers bubba. waiter!