Is your insanity bright orange and does it smell like fresh paint?
Is your neurosis a red six in Times New Roman quarreling with her neighbor, the chartreuse 13 in Helvetica?
Is your raging self-deception flavored like Flinstones Vitamins (the purple ones, NOT the pink ones, which taste like keys clacking on a typewriter)?
Is your estrangement from reality a capital letter Q, an ampersand, and then the letter Z, merrily sharing a plate of lasagna, which sounds like a car starting when it hits your tongue?
Is your psychosis Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 2 in buttered praline minor?
Is your plight simply that the magenta will not stop singing?
Or is it that the radio will not stop turning your walls magenta?
