(All up in your) Brane Cosmology

Michael Crain woke that next morning to find his sheets cold and sticky. And, for an instant, he wondered if perhaps life - specifically his twenty-two years of existence, his forty-four visits to the dentist, his 37,324,800 hours of yawning in classrooms and daydreaming of fingerblasting a female archetype whose breasts grew over the years at rate far out of proportion to Michael's own (four) sexual experiences - was like that. He wondered if life was no more than the sticky remnants of last night's wet dream on one of the infinite number of colliding, sheet-like membranes of our ten dimensional multiverse.

He began to strip the bed, intending to dump the sheets outside his sleeping mother's doorway for her to wash between her 1 and 3pm shows. "Fuck it," he said aloud, abandoning his effort halfway and finding no small amount of joy in the sheet's crisp phwack as elastic and cotton rejoined the foam and polyester mattress.

Michael walked across the room, and sat naked on his computer chair. He adjusted his genitals. He signed onto the internet to check if any of his online friends had posted a message on his Myspace page.

They hadn't.