Going Postal?

I'm walking along, mailbag on my shoulder, hands full of the mail I'm sorting as I walk. I'm moving right along, keeping  a good pace without running or anything. If you are an observer down the street from me, you see just a mailman, everything A-okay, all is as it should be.

Without warning of any kind, just as I stroll between the hedges that bracket the entry to someone's walkway, I appear to go into some kind of fit, or spasm. My feet keep walking, but my head pulls back, and my torso twists and contorts like I'm trying to leave my head behind. My lower half starts to turn as well, until I'm backing across the lawn at an angle. By this time I have shouted a curse word or two, and I have squinched up my face and started to spit. Big, stage spitting, again and again, "Pah! Pah! Blech! Pah!"
You, the observer, probably have a moment's apprehension at seeing a mailman acting like this; all those stories of us 'going postal' and taking out half of the local workforce with automatic weapons, like Schwarzenegger, or Stallone, but in a horrible blue rayon blend. That apprehension is not helped by what you seen next.
I pull off my sunglasses and begin to wipe and brush at my face. Violently and with feeling. I'm still spitting Pah! Pah! Pah! From the distance you're at it probably looks like I am just hitting myself in the face.
Terrific.
Eventually I stop this, but even as I walk away I am still brushing at my eyes and pawing at one ear.

I know that you, the observer, are thinking What the hell was that? 
And what the hell was that?


Did you just witness a temporary loss of the thin veneer I use to keep John Q. Public from knowing I am completely insane, have a water-tower all picked out and am just waiting for the 7-day waiting period to run out so I can pick up my brand new high-powered rifle?


Did my finely-tuned psychiatric medication simply go out of whack for a bit, causing a spastic loss of motor control, and you were lucky to be far enough away from me to not even notice that I soiled my shorts explosively during that brief loss?


Did you just witness me having a terrible acid flashback, defending myself vigorously against attacking neon-colored sexually aroused pixies that only I could see?


None of the above.
I walked through a spider's web.
...and my mouth was open since I was still singing "YMCA" to myself.

Talk to you later!