I remember once when I was on the borderline of the worst nervous breakdown of my life, shortly before I was committed two years ago:
I was standing there in a Taco Bell staring at nothing, completely wooden, when all the horribly tacky pink-purple-pastel-teal-striped gray material everywhere abruptly turned transparent. None of it existed; it was funny to me that it did exist. It made me feel odd. How did this place come to be, why was it here, and by what stretch of the imagination did the idea for fucking SODA MACHINES and goddamn pastel-nightmare-teal metal pole dividers in a place where you exchange green paper for Americanized Mexican food come from? At first it was funny, and then I was livid.
I didn't understand why anything was the way it was and I was angry that the human race hadn't come up with a completely different idea for life than the one it already had. I felt weird, like I didn't really exist and someone was playing a sick joke. Not my planet, not my species, not my anything. Then the feeling passed as soon as it came, and I was completely stoic again. I went home and unsuccessfully attempted to cry in bed the rest of the day.