A few days later, to my dismay, I was discharged. I insisted that this color change was not typical of any medical procedure, odd or otherwise.
“Don’t be silly!” I was told in a “reassuring” tone.
God above knew I was not reassured.

I sat in my bedroom chair, tapping my hand and watching the “psychedelic seventeen” (as I came to “affectionately” call that color-changing phenomenon) radiate from the touch point. It did it anywhere I touched.
Touched in multiple places? Like, three points on my hand?
The colors would radiate, then merge into some squiggly contour.
I was bored, so I decided to turn on the radio to my favorite classical music station. I flipped it on.
I had to double check the tuner.
It was on the right station, but it sure wasn’t playing Beethoven.
My ears were plagued by “FunkyTown.”
Moaning, I turned off the radio. But “FunkyTown” didn’t stop playing.
I clapped my radiating hands over my multi-colored ears, wishing it would stop.
It kept going.
“Aw frick!” I screeched.