Strange would be to come to on the floor of a closet, half dressed in tiger leotards with what for all appearances looks to be whipped cream surrounding your genitals and about half a pound of strawberry jam smeared over your chest.
Your head is throbbing to a dance beat that has long since stopped playing, but your aching brain doesn't know the difference.
There is a searing pain running up and down the last foot of your colon and your breath has a chemmically minty taste that the thought of leaves you wanting to heave up the contents of your stomach - but you avoid that thought since the idea scares you, and you only have one shoe on - a high heeled deal with straps up to your knee.
You press open the door and see that you are in your mother's bedroom and it is midday. You stagger to your feet only to nearly walk right into a well built man missing his left leg and only wearing a nightgown that barely covers his one horribly disfigured leg.
You go to inquire the details such as why, how, what, and when - but before you can there is a crash and a early '80s model Firebird crashes through the wall, pressing the king sized bed against you and the amputee man, forcing your already sore body into drywall and cheap structure behind you.
As you fade in and out of consciousness, you notice that it apppears to be raining and that what you think looks to be Mars is straight overhead - which triggers a vague craving for candy and a nearly undeniable need to empty your bowels.
That would probably be a bit strange.
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