All around you are vibrantly deep greens set off by soft mauves and golds. You yourself are attired in a red and white gingham frock with blue piping. A spray of ribbons in your hair has curled into an elastic caduceus, and the wind whistling through it mimics the song of happy clams. Egrets with softly droopy plumes circle overhead, molesting no one, not even the Shrimp King. You enter a sun-swept glade and sit down by the edge of a babbling brook.
Frogs gather round, erroneously sensing a bluebottle feast.
In this pacific milieu, you are finally free to let the feminine side of your personality emerge. Now, don't fight it. You are coming to terms with your feminine side, a kinder, gentler persona whose musical counterpart ebbs and flows like a great Montovanian tidal basin, shimmers like the residue of a fire jumper's pacemaker struck by lightning, howls like a radiolabeled rat on cetirizine. It wobbles and honks, it festers and doinks, it is the lyrical equivalent of fast food by fax, it is the calling card of the musical mama. It is from planet Venus, and all of the little orbiting asteroids are its emetic chorus.