wickedflea | the boy had turned about eight shades of freaky

Some days, things just come at you from all directions and keep slapping the hot shit out of you -- but you don't realize what's going on. You have a vague sense that everything is -- perhaps not horribly Wrong, but decidedly warped. Things are downright weird, not for only you, but for everyone around you. And, usually, on these days, despite the fact that everything is warped, people are strangely giddy, sort of like zombies in the throes of sleep deprivation -- like they've thrown up their hands and are riding the bucking freak snake for all it's worth. That, my friends, is Freak Day. Today I realized at 3:45 that it's Freak Day. There's no recognizing a Freak Day at 10 a.m.; if you think it's a Freak Day at any time before late afternoon, it isn't a Freak Day. And there's no denying it. Earlier in the week, I had a couple of days when I thought, "Hmmm... this might be Freak Day." Nothing of the sort. When it's here, you know it, by dog, and if you have to ask questions, it ain't.

Please excuse these paranoid ramblings. I'm a little giddy . . .