Hysteron Proteron (his’-ter-on pro’-ter-on): Disorder of time. (What should be first, isn’t.).
Everything was back-asswards. I was getting younger by the hour. My receding hairline was ceding—like a tide of black fur rising on the shores of my bald head. It wasn’t quite a tsunami but it was close. There was dandruff floating in the sea of hair bobbing on the swirling currents of restoration. My eyes were no longer foggy-looking little round smudges. Now they were bright puddles of lapis-lazuli, shining their beautiful color for all the world to see, and to comment on and love. My stomach had shrunk to its forty years back flatness. I looked like I used to be as my whole body had gone into chrono-reversal.
Where would it end? Back to the womb? A cloud a protoplasm blown into consonance with the wind and streaming away on a volatile west-gale?
The process had slowed considerably since I had switched over to a junk food diet. I figured eating convenience store snack food would slow the process, and maybe reverse it. Eating death-food, I reasoned, would balance out whatever it was making me younger. Of course, I was wrong. The improvement had become unnoticeable, as death=life in backwards logic. It started again. My death-hold kept me at about thirty years old for a week.
Now I’m going full tilt into adolescence. Pimples. squeaky voice, rude, enjoying fart jokes and video games, and more. I still don’t understand why this is happening to me. Certainly, under its logic, if I was sane before, now I’m going insane—a crazy adolescent, but jeez, I’m fading into toddlerhood. Luckily I still have my wits about me, even though, I’m insane. I’m insane.
I see a giant vagina posed in front of me with an arrow pointing in. In I go. I pass out. Unconscious, I’m conscious of laying on a pile of clocks going coo-cuck, coo-cuck, coo-cuck.
This is a disaster, but at least I’m comfortably bald again. I hear ahead a soft, yet adamant voice, urging me to take my meds NOW! It’s THAT TIME AGAIN.
The Daily Trope 