Spastic warbling, moist

The steam room obscures my vision, but my hearing is unaffected, as my auditory sense picks up a screeching from outside. The door flaps open, letting-in a blast of icy winter air, and just in that moment, I catch a glimpse of the warbling spastic. He stands, arms flopping by his side uselessly. His mouth is agape, and his eyes rolled back into his eye sockets. His head is turning slowly from side to side, and this more than anything scares me, chills me in this steam room.
I make a hasty exit, and then remember drinking that cold beer this morning for breakfast, afraid that the children would smell it on my breath, but now beyond caring as I realize I'm in an alcoholic haze.
I'm smiling, floating in this watery world, my cells parting, flesh becomes fluid and I begin to fall apart, and then I'm a red lobster, cooking slowly into oblivion, smiling as there is no pain. My flesh tastes sweet, I watch them eat me, licking their fat lips, and I bow with gratitude as they proffer me a piece of my succulent meat. Oh, it's heaven!