Synesthesia is intriguing. The ability to smell colors, see music and taste words would be a neat superpower.

I imagine the satirical genius streaming through my brain tastes like a burrito. A fat, delicious melange of flavors stuffed inside a steamed tortilla. (You're conceited.)

Synesthesia is a rare neurological phenomenon when two or more of the senses entwine. I imagine synesthetes see life through the eyes of "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" Not like they're looking through a VHS tape, but maybe their toilets look like Acme holes. And maybe notes flow from their trumpets in the form of little Jessica Rabbits. Conversation takes the form of colored speech bubbles. Their vehicles are Car Toons. *POW*

I want to play.

Christy Fantz
Christy Fantz

So I will. I'm going to create my own synesthesia and tout that my print headlines look like solid gold. Like bug-eyed sparkly 14-karat gold cartoon letters who sprout legs and are embellished with blue ribbons. They're running slow-motion across rolling hills of cannabis, while carrying Olympic torches. When they rip through the faux finish line made out of cheese, they shoot whiskey and slam the shotglasses on the ground.

"We're No. 1, bitches!" they chant.

(Just pop Molly and stick with me. A point is en route.)

I don't typically win things. I think high school drained my winning bucket by barraging my ego with props like "Best Dressed," "Best Nickname," "Miss Congeniality" and other solid achievements. (They called me "Shaq" in high school. As in Shaquille O'Neal. The Diesel. Shaq Fu. The Big Daddy. Wilt Chamberneezy. The Big Baryshnikov. You know, Kazaam.)


Then after high school and college, I won a free beer at trivia.

I may possess the luck of the fictional Eugene Proctor, but my so-called luck drought is probably due to a lack of ambition. I have solid intentions to enter journalism contests. Then I get busy and forget what I was doing, so I drink more boxed wine.

Well, I finally entered for 2015 and just over the weekend I won two Colorado Press Association awards.

As I shun the cliched mic-drop, I'll shot-glass drop with my gold letter pals and bail on a high note.

Like George Costanza said to Jerry Seinfeld in 1998 (you're old), "I can usually come up with one good comment during a meeting, but by the end it's buried under a pile of gaffes and bad puns."

Jerry replies: "Showmanship, George. When you hit that high note, say good night and walk off."

Good night, I say to thee.

I'm going to go blow my wad on scratch tickets and beef jerky. I'm going to take my pants off and hang out with Walmart's patio furniture. I'm going to lick the air and eat music. I'm going to smell the sounds and taste success' soul. I'm going to party with Joaquin Phoenix and tell him my brain looks like a bowl of Alpha-Bits.

Then I'll see you tomorrow because I have a mortgage to pay. But thanks for letting me play.

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