You ever have one of those days where you're just… too artistic? Like you wake up, step outside, and suddenly the trees are crying, the figs look like boobs, and you're like:
"Why is a nightmare in shining amor squeezing those figs like they tits?!"
That's when you know your mental browser has 47 tabs open, and 46 of them are abstract art.
And abstract art… man. Everyone pretends to understand it, but I swear half the time it's just a splash that looks like the painter sneezed mid-tax return. You ask the artist what it means and they're like:
"It's the essence of a six‑footed sloth trying to fit into skinny jeans."
Sir, that is not art. That is me every time I shop at Zara.
And then the sloth's like,"Honey are you okay? Honey are you okay?"And I'm like, "No! I'm not okay! I have six feet and only one pant leg!"
Meanwhile the moon is doing cosplay as a banana wearing Taurus horns, looking like it's about to tell me my rising sign is 'confused.'
But my favorite part — my absolute favorite part — is when art critics talk. They always sound like they just licked a mystical frog.
They'll be like: "My speech… is a beach." And I'm like: Buddy, mine is a mess. Can we trade?
Then they start describing things like,"Xanadu angels pimping caterpillar prostitutes with pristine nails."
Sir. Please. This is a gallery, not a hallucination.
And somewhere in the back Merlin is screaming,"Hogwash yoghurt!"which honestly feels like a very British insult.
Then — THEN — we get to the hog who just got a wash.
I don't know what that hut did to deserve its fate, but apparently it's stuck in the moon, blitz-running on a super sized hamster wheel, while a mosquito with thumbs — because sure, why not — is typing its memoir.
This mosquito has calypso blue thumbs. Mine just itch and ruin camping trips.
And just when you think the story is over, the universe's avocado shows up. If your avocado has foreshadowing, throw it away. It's haunted.
Then suddenly — clarity! Except no, clarity swallows you whole like the world's worst motivational speaker. Your lipstick vanishes into the clouds. Your analog husband refuses to smile — which honestly sounds like a man who hasn't updated his emotional firmware since 1997.
And just when you finally pour your heart out to the sun — like some kind of cosmic rom‑com:
"Be my sun! One kiss and light up my heart!"
The sun goes: "….". Hits you with absolute silence. Then blows up like a supernova in your face. No warning. No closure. Just interstellar ghosting.
Now you're standing there, covered in cosmic residue, no makeup, emotionally sautéed, like:
"Can I have a hug?"
And the universe — the compassionate, loving universe — says:
"…No."