I was tossed into a pot of eye ball soup and stirred by ten witches good, for love was upon their hearts, they spun me then with yarn, with needles across my skin into a velvet sweater, they jumped about and shouted with glee, as they cut me to pieces in which to grow, and marry everyone!

Imagine yourself unhappy again!

Come to me for the real deal!

Don't leave me!

Sinister in the spot light tunnel, loveless in a state of crazed dystopian madness, floating on balls of air, seeking for things not there, weeping fake tears near secular buildings. A non existence filling like cream cheese, in a magic box constantly spinning, deep underground with eyes twisted.