I've ... licked expired milk from the furthest future.

Your kung fu is greater than mine.

Snow White in a blue dress. Hair tied in a messy ponytail, to match the heart she shoulders, tied capriciously in knots. He's getting married in a few minutes. The man she believes she loves. The man she believes she's meant to be with, starting from today until forever. The brunette. The straight hair. The fluffy pom poms. She's changed, they say. Though Snow doesn't particularly trust their words. "A Neurosurgeon? For real?" He and the brunette, they met again inside the library of a small Massachusetts town. A chance encounter at a second chance for true happiness. The brunette was doing research for her thesis, he needed a quiet place to study for the Bar.

He can't be happy with her. She's... not blonde. Or perky. Or still has her Hall & Oates trapper keeper from the seventh grade. Snow White isn't sure why she's here. She just... felt she had to. In the movies, which ones she can't recall, this is where and when the nice girl gets the guy. Or more often, the nice guy gets the girl. Saves. Snow was brought to this place, this ceremony by Fate. He wouldn't have someone like her- a star that shines ever so bright- be alone, while the man she believes she once loved gives his future to anyone else. Especially Snow's own brunette doppelganger- the Evil Queen from her childhood fairy tales. Daddy warned Snow about them. Mass produced in a grungy factory in the wrong side of town.

Snow's wrists begin to shake- down to her hips, and then even further down to her ankles. The adrenaline from her nerves passes through each joint at least twice per second, throwing off her balance, numbing the ever-more-frequent pulses of logic trying to wake her up. Wake up, Snow. Please. The feeling, if she were in a state to feel anything but overwhelmed, is ignored. The ceremony had commenced thirty minutes ago, but Snow just didn't want to notice. Snow doesn't want this dream to end, not by her trembling hands. It's time. A young woman in a blue dress exits the shadows, dashing towards a tragic reality. "Don't say yes, run away now..."

Three pills. One to neutralize the crazy, a second to minimize the damage from the first. The third is supposedly placebo, but when I take it without the other two, I can see a small cat, wading through abstract concepts. I don't understand either, so don't ask me to explain. Maybe there's a fourth pill that does that.

Pix or it didn't happen.

I was expecting some humour in this thread, but this fabricated wallowing in self-misery is faker than Armani jeans made in Vietnam.

Reminds me of QI where Stephen Fry asks where one finds the biggest drip and then follows to describe it as vast. How vast? Just vast in general yet vastly vast in its vastness, roughly 20 meters if you are ever able to measure it.

Phil Jupitus made that moment very chuckle worthy...