I have a ridiculous headache.
It feels like a clown is punching me very slowly in the back of the neck with a fist composed of a large, newbuck glove full of small mice.
It feels like two children of indeterminate age (but younger than 12) are pulling on a rope attached to my left earlobe, via a pulley system, from a room two buildings away.
It feels like a segway scooter is backing into a see-saw which upends a pail of milk which drives a cat on a treadmill to rush forward which turns a ferris wheel which raises a match across a paper, then moves that self-same match to a string holding a hammer in place, which, released, smashes a glass which horrifies the schoolmarm who shrieks, terrifying a snake sitting on the hat of nearby Puritain Minister, who jumps fully four feet into the air, amazing a six-dollar-hair-drier which, against its will, overturns a pair of doves who fly across the ceiling of the tabernacle, inspiring a painting robot that pulls a string that fires a .9mm bullet into a steel plate affixed to a goat who, angered, gives me a ridiculous headache with his terrible mental powers.
That is the kind of headache.