Sure, I hear numbers and taste shapes and feel colors, like any prosaic synesthete, but that's just the beginning of my powers. I sing the best whipped mashed potatoes you've ever tried. I sneeze rainbows (more colors than ROYGBIV, they tell me). I pimple-pop joy. I headache sunbeams. I diarrhea those piercing electronic sounds from the little windup soldiers you see being sold on the street. I inseminate nostalgia. The other day, due to food poisoning (bad clam fettuccine), I vomited a poem—the most beautiful poem ever written. I immediately flushed it down, but you trust me. I'm a synesthete.