My mind suddenly appeared, relatively stable, and visible to my own eyes—or at least that is how it felt. I couldn't really see my mind, but my spectrum of consciousness, now narrowed to a mere search light, briefly  gazed upon itself as it rolled and kicked in a field. But it was not a field where I found myself. It was my bathroom. I sat on the toilet, fervently massaging my cucumber. My face turned red and filled with frustration at the specimen, as I felt it withheld from me some transcendent morsel of stimulation.

But alas, my focus dwindled upwards towards to the bizarre patterns that covered the beige bathroom walls. Light brown archways made of tattered twigs, leaves visibly moving overhead like paper-mache clouds. At first I thought it a dream, and that the cucumber I fervently stroked had to be some sort of food-based metaphor for masturbation, but as I came to my senses, I realized that I really was just rubbing a cucumber from the fridge, not to mention using ranch dressing and what smelled like urine for lubrication.

However strange the situation, I knew with all certainty that a brilliant clarity loomed about it all, but I would only understand it if the events prior were all pieced together in unison. It was then, and only then, that I would come to a bemusing conclusion, a catalyst that brought to mind the image of a cartoon-kangaroo ecstatically shoving lightning bolts into its pouch: Drugs were bad.