When hyper-surreal madness takes hold, you just have to surrender to the loopy vibes.

You never know when hyper-surrealism will strike. One minute you’re just living your usual routine in good old consensual reality, and the next—bam!—your world is suddenly swarming with bizarre absurdities. The fabric of normalcy rips like wet tissue paper. Up becomes down, real becomes fantasy, and you can’t even trust your own appliances anymore. I caught my fridge debating quantum physics with my toaster.

It makes you question everything you thought you knew about reality, though. I mean, if my goldfish can beat me in a thoughtful debate on the state of geopolitics, does objective truth even exist? Am I the one who’s insane here, or is the world caught in some permanent, interdimensional, silly juice spill? But I’ve stopped trying to impose reason on the irrational; I’ve accepted the reality that hyper-surrealism is now my actual reality. And today, I think I’ll rename my cat Lord Fluffington the Fourth. Hyper-surrealism demands it.