headache machine is unstoppable.

Waking in a dark place, with minty breath, wet feet and a missing set of trousers is peculiar, yes. I fasten a saddle of man-made materials (feels and looks almost like real leather though) onto Sir Cheesenhiem. His squeaks of drunken inpatients drills a hole right through my prefrontal cortex, causing massive confusion about weather or not eating a rare steak using only my feet would be acceptable. I chew a handful of baby aspirin and decide that it depends on present company.

My mount lazily wades through the sewer system. We pass yard sale type mounds of assorted shoes, dearly departed hamsters and goldfish, and several 2ND and 4Th place boccie trophies, all veiled and frosted in the cities bowel emptyings. Its funny what riding a freakishly enormous sewer rat through the labyrinths of stench will do to a woman:
#1. Makes me think of a glorious pair of red stiletto heels i saw while window shopping, I thought of how erotically humorous it would be to see the old man who wet himself sitting next to me on the bus would look in those.
#2. How feta cheese is too salty for me sometimes, yet I enjoy my eyes watering from popcorn, I salt it so enthusiastically.
#3. It makes me believe I'm much much smaller than i really am because I'm riding a rat.

Forgetting this particular rat was enlarged due to eating the pituitary glands of hobo children he yanked through the sewer grates after promises of lollipops, I felt almost like a pants less tick. much larger than a tick though, I smashed my head on a low hanging pipe as we turned the corner.

I slip into a concussion induced dream where I'm dressed in a low cut Chantal Mallett 18Th century style corset gown of velvet, having high tea with a colleague of mine, who tastelessly is wearing the very same thing. we nibble cucumber sandwiches and guzzle Oolong tea sweetened with squeezy bear honey.
the discussion is intense.

My comrade firmly believes that the maker of this spinning katamari in the sky has a phallus of ever flowing honey mustard, not unlike that served at Fridays. To suckle at such an all mighty organ would be Divine, and lets not leave out the chicken finger basket.

I on the other hand have a divergent point of view. My personal savior is graced with a delicately flaky, buttery pastry brimming with a rich sweet crème pâtissière, and adorned with copious amounts of chocolaty icing. Yes, a sacrosanct eclair, that is replenished with every angelic mouthful. As a tuxedo clad slug joins us at the table, he reminds us that such a topic could be considered blasphemous. the thought hadn't crossed my mind I say, spraying easy cheese onto a triscuit cracker in the shape of a deceased smiley face. How could there be anything sacrilegious about an all powerful deity who feeds his weary followers by allowing them to suckle at his Divine manhood? One with a high caloric intake yes...but is that evil? I say nay.

The slug mutters something about a pot roast left in the oven, folds his napkin, bows to my counterpart, curtsies to me, excuses himself from the table then rolls in a salt pile, forthwith. We move our chairs and watch the kaleidoscopic sunset, a splendid back drop for the now motionless heap of formal attire fizzling in a salty heap.