While you were sleeping, I drank my weight in pesticides. The regurgitation paled in comparison to the crisp and startling hallucinations. It wasn't like a stream of liquid visuals dribbled themselves across my eyes and Jefferson Airplane sang sweetly in the background. It was more of a scene in which I was smiling and sweating while the most fanatical and questionable ideas congregated in randomly placed 12-second fragments, totally commercial-free. Creativity and intellect reached a lovely stalemate during the night while I was left behind, counting the blinking lights on the modem and punching holes through the skull of a coffee-haired stranger.

Clearly a debacle in the fabric of time and space, I was stuck with my decision and had to face up to the consequences. 'You know, Oscar Wilde once said 'There are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart's desire. The other is to get it.''� I'm guessing the pesticides were in their beginning stages of ruin because whoever spoke those clear words was nowhere to be found. I've never gone crazy or anything like that, but just like the seasons, things tend to change. And they did. Atop of my medical terminology book sat a head that appeared to be professionally severed. No blood, jagged bones, torn flesh, or even a body to make a chauvinistic comment about, but she did have great hair. She repeated her questionable Oscar Wilde quote once again, rolling her eyes and exhaling as if she were frustrated by the lack of response I showed. 'There are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart's desire. The other is to get it.'� I wasn't so frightened that it was 12:53 a.m. and a nameless head had appeared beside me in my bedroom quoting Oscar Wilde. The underlying fear was that I would be forced to listen to these timeless passages and good-natured thoughts while my imagination flowed as graceful as a prison rape. 'I'm not going to tell you my name,'� the voice spoke, 'only because it's a fat girls' name. Call me Cecilia. I like that name better. It's got so much more passion. It's the name of a woman who's always going to be elegant, no matter where she goes.'�

Before I could give the proper response one would to a minimal hallucination such as this, I caught myself instantly chuckling at my random curiosity of these three magic words: stop, drop, and roll. For the foreigners and Southerners that don't know, it's a method used to assist uninformed people who have, in most cases been set aflame against their will, and has done a great job doing so. I was just kind of wondering if that remedy has been used to treat anything else that has brought our society to a screeching halt like yellow fever, claustrophobia, male pattern baldness, or dysentery.

She gathered up my attention by yet again spilling her words of importance. 'Part of being human is having self-control.'� 'That's great and everything,'� I said, 'but what in the hell are you talking about and why in the hell don't you have a body?'�

'I'm your over-enthused jazzercise instructor who forgot to bring her torso with her.'�

Since this hallucination was custom-made I knew that I was being dealt a handful of my own sarcasm.

'I don't think I could supply a plausible reason for me being here. However, I do know that you're comfortable with slipping in and out of consciousness and I also know you have yet to ask anything intimate about me. On top of all that, I've identified you have a bit of a glow that seems to preach the gospel of Asshole.'�

'Ok. Wait, what?! A jazzercising head without a body to properly jazzercise with feels the need to sit on my bed and call me an asshole?'�

'I may lack a few attributes like hands, a neck, and a heart, but since I came from your brain and I don't really exist then all that stuff isn't needed. But wait'� I must exist because this conversation is happening, right?'�
I was beyond confused as the Cecelia head-thing tried to smooth things over.

'As long as I've known you, you've always needed situations clarified, no matter the time or place. And come on, the jazzercise thing was just a joke. One that you obviously didn't get.'�

'How in the hell do you know me? Who in the hell are you?'�

'I'm you. Kind of. If you were a girl that had a lot of free time and didn't have a body this is how you would turn out; properly equipped with your attitude, imagination, and winning personality.'�

I'm not sure why but I wasn't that upset with how the female me turned out. It would have been cordial for her to tell me she was going to stop by, but there's no real need to nitpick because I caught a couple of candles on my dresser slowly changing colors. It was like they were performing a meticulous striptease; peeling their shades away to entice me with never-before-seen tints and hues that lead me to smile only in amazement. With the craftiness of a British spy my surroundings chose to alter themselves. If this was an example of my mind rebelling against itself then I knew that self-control wasn't for me. Like a serpent, the belt dangling from the closet doorknob cautiously slid its way down to the floor. The silver buckle acting as the head toyed with the shadows by bringing itself in and out of the light. It was near juvenile the way it enjoyed its own movement. I couldn't get too caught up in everything because I still had a smart-assed head I needed to talk to.

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