There’s nothing quite like not being able to sleep and turning on the television at 1:30 in the morning and flipping to a documentary about an amateur-porn film festival and seeing a girl you were friends with in college starring in a backstage movie of a fifties-style musical as a singing strawberry who makes a mistake and gets spanked and then fucked by a menacing stagehand while her cohorts the snail, the flower, and the other random horticultural element I am too tired to remember look on and continue singing to keep you staring at your ceiling until you have to get out of bed and go to a meeting even though the image still haunts you so vividly that you might as well have stayed home for all the use you are.
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