Thor's world, too prown

The sun was a blazing golden pancake, a hotcake left on the griddle too long, all crispy on the edges, and when Thor peered out her window, she wanted to scream.
She'd thought the condition was temporary. She'd woken late this morning, her face deep in a chocolate-brown pillow, a trail of dingy drool puddling in its corner. She'd rubbed her hazel eyes and stretched, marveling at the tan she'd managed to develop here in Minnesota, in the middle of February, when the snow out there by the driveway was piled as high as her shoulders. The gigantic mole on her arm had grown richer in color, she noticed, dark as coffee grounds, and Thor figured cancer was a-comin', popping out like an eraserhead, a button she could press to shoot toxins throughout her body until she was bald in some hospital bed, wishing for Disneyland, smiling sickly for the TV cameras and wondering when Goofy would walk through the door with a grocery store sheet cake: "GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR CANCER, THOR -- DREAMS DO COME TRUE."
But that wasn't it. No, something else was going on. This had happened to Thor before, when she'd lost her mind lying in the bathtub and accidentally stared too long at the dusty light fixture overhead. She'd splashed back to reality, looked around and saw all the colors were off, muted, bland, wrong. Blinking had cured that, though. After a few minutes, the shower curtain was once again pink, the dandruff shampoo blue, the mildew between the tiles a deep green-black.
No blinking was fixing this. Time hadn't lightened the color of the mole, hadn't turned her bedspread from mocha to scarlet.
Thor's world, it seemed, had turned brown.
She grabbed at the curtain and threw it back. There it hung in the sky, the pancake, the end of everything, the beginning of her beige life.