Far be it for me to suggest getting a flu shot from an 80 year-old woman in a crusty blue smock stained with chocolate flavored Ensure standing behind a folding table offering $30 dollar doses of influenza remedy in the middle of a Walgreens, but one thing I enthusiastically request of myself: Eric, don’t mix entire bottles of NyQuil with Keanu Reeve’s films!

Read on, dude!

My head is on fire.

I can feel giant drops of perspiration gathering against the surface, growing too heavy to withstand the pull of gravity and one by one they tumble over my brow and slide down my nose like obnoxious children. They fly through the air, laughing, until they crash like a dozen Humpty-Dumptys on my chest spraying tiny egg shell shrapnel everywhere. I wipe the front of my head in an effort to stem the flow of sweat and my skin sloughs off my skull between my fingers. It gathers against the palm of my hand like slices of lunch meat and it’s not really fair because I am quite hungry for some soup and a sandwich.

Sand Witch. Sorceress of the Spice. Wind swept tresses of black hair flowing out behind her, from underneath and out of a hat that cannot match the striking shade of midnight that grows from her scalp. Pale white skin of the moon that cannot be tainted by the sun that tries its best to burn her to cinders with no trial nor pyre. She pays no heed to its efforts as she skillfully navigates a Spice worm through the vast desert dessert with a pair of eyes like sugar frosted green gum drops…

Wait.

I can’t feel my feet.

I look down towards the ends of my legs to make sure that I still possess them and let out a small sigh of relief to find them when a strange sensation passes through my skin and my legs begin to grow longer and longer and oh, how nice of the room to go right ahead and stretch along with them so that they will have enough room instead of of just coiling up against the wall like tendrils of vanilla ice cream. And my big purple bed is an even bigger, purple-er bed, as it grew in proportion with my legs. I’ve always said that it is quite accommodating, now I have ample evidence.

My torso just turned into a Play-Doh Fun Factory.

I wonder if…wait, let me check.

Nope, of course not. Well, neither did my arms and my head seems to be of the same width and breadth as it was a few minutes ago. Oh, and I forgot all about that whole “no skin nor scalp” thing. That was weird. I thought for a moment that perhaps I had shaved my head again, but I’ve never been able to get it that smooth. I knock on it a few time just to see how hollow it sounds, and I’m not all that surprised to hear someone knocking back, yelling at me to keep the noise down.

Sorry.

I pick up the crumpled mask that was my face and put my hand inside of it and try to make it talk like a puppet. Eat drums. Eat drums! EAT DRUMS! GAAAHHHH! I poke two of my fingers through the eye holes and wiggle them back at my eyeballs, but I quickly pull them back through and drop my face to my side as an intense fear grips me as I wonder if my fingers were going to manifest themselves inside my skull and skewer my actual eyeballs on the ends of my fingers. I swallow hard imaging that my wrist is pressing against my larynx.

Larry Nix.

Wait, who’s wiggling my toes?

I look back down to find that someone’s hands are operating my feet like sock puppets. They’re making silhouette aminals against the wall of my bedroom and I watch as they contort my big toe away from the rest of my toes like the ears of a rabbit. I watch them moving back and forth across the wall, their shadows playfully cavorting together in an amicable fashion. I feel a slight tug at the end of my ankles and I quickly glance back to the source of the puppetry to find that both of my feet, with an audible pop, have disconnected themselves from my ankles. They’ve grown paws and tails and noses of their own. Big wondering eyes that keep shifting through the secondary colors of the wheel.

Two argyle bunnies that are hopping around on the edge of my bed.

Who, I demand, are you, and what have you done with my feet!

They both stop and stand up on their hind legs, testing my scent with their noses and walk right back towards me, up and over my knees. Each of them strolling up the length of their previous locale with an air of nonchalance.

I’m Peter S. Cottontail, Esquire.

I’m Rod “Rodentia” Lagomorph.

And together we’re WYLD RABBYTS!

They begin playing air guitar on the edge of my bed, their ears spreading wide from the tops of their heads as electricity starts climbing up to their tips like a Tesla coil. Sparks are flying from the tips of their fur and dancing in the air all around us and I can hear the mystical magic of Kip Winger’s fretwork making my ears ring. All the furniture in my bedroom is turning into hedges as the music gets louder. My green glass lamps shatter on either side of me. They twist and crunch as they grow roots and a trunk. The trunk sprouts branches that grab the emerald shards of glass right out of the air and they transform into burnt orange leaves hanging from their ends that cast shade over my hardwood floor that grass is now growing up from and covering the entirety of the walking space.

My bed has turned into a collection of rocks covered in purple lichen.

The rabbits high five each other and with a later bro! they hop across the floor towards a hole that has appeared in the corner of my room just to the side of one of the hedges and they both dive into it and disappear. I listen for about a minute waiting to hear an echo of them landing safely, and I hear a faint observation floating up from the depths.

Dude, this is a totally deep hole…