Staring at this travesty of a mockery, this douchenigma wrapped in a scrotal surrounded by a bagestry is like shoving hot peppers down my medulla oblongata while gargling U-Bet chocolate syrup mixed with razor blades.

It's a psychological sixteen car pileup on the cultural highway, an epic trainwreck of the subconscious, a swirling mix of societal rot. A mish-mash of signifiers of a meaning structure gone horribly, psychedelically and douche-scrotally wrong.

I can't look away.

Is this a fever-dream hallucination? Can anyone make sense of the fourteen incongruities that make up this Freudian manifestation of my deep-rooted hatred of my parents?

Does the orange Gatorade represent sexual jealousy?

Or perhaps the spilled food is a metaphor for longing and dissatisfaction?

The open fridge perhaps symbolizes the opportunity to choose a different path.

While the ubiquitous Grey Goose bottle suggests celebration and exhileration with change.

And muscle choad's ginormous mandana, cloth bracelet, exposed underwear and douche-face suggest there is no God.

That's it. I'm going back to bed.