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Her imagination exploded like an victim of food poisoning patient, black matter splattered to unknown parts and what appeared to be spit dripping from her swollen, rotten anus. Is that a run-on, though?
Cheryl’s thoughts oozed slowly out of her brain like they were grains of truth caught in a coffee filter full of farts, and her mind’s nose knew the thoughts were stinky and full of misbegotten lust.
Cheryl’s thinkhole roiled with turbidity, like grandpa’s diapers after Thanksgiving.
Cheryl’s thoughts jumped rapidly from one thing to another, precisely the way a dead puppy does not.
Cheryl thoughted all her thoughts, rolling them into a giant ball of lint and feelings until her thinkball burst into pukey flames.
Sue’s writing sprang forth like a turd rushing to escape the darkened confines of her anus, splashing violently across the pages of her terrible novel like a million failed short stories tossed out with the curbside recycling.
Cheryl’s mind turned like a rusty vane atop an ancient, abandoned abattoir, its walls and floor crusted with the caked remnants of slaughtered memories, specks of crimson dust flaking off, each made up of an image no larger than one dessicated and deflated cell of her sluggishly circulating lifeblood.
aw shit, i accidently my whole sentence.
I approve of what this has turned into.
The once nebulous gray matter sloshing listlessly through Cheryl’s skull transformed at once into a carefully forged ball of rainbows and glitter, carried to her mind’s eye on a silver platter by a mostly nude leather clad bear wearing lipstick and a Dolly Parton wig named “Boz.”