Videodrome ★★★★

— Ronald Reagan

don't let anyone undersell it to you, it is ridiculously hard to find the clitoris on a television set. he finds himself telling women things. the women already know, but they let him ramble on anyway. she wants the goods but he's painted double yellow lines around everything even remotely resembling a phallus in the tri-state area. he finds maintaining a conversation with an attractive human being a circular expedition, one minute he's hailing a cab for a woman in a red dress and the next he's cold, alone, crying into an empty carton of ben & jerry's and jacking it into an old forlorn VHS cassette sleeve of god knows what. overworked and undersexed. this is "definitely not for public consumption" but god damn it since when did those schmucks know what they wanted anyway. he himself never did want to consume something as much as he did when the fruit brought out their new forbidden section. he remembers when the bus would pull up to his bus stop and he'd wait for everyone else to get off first so he could saunter home with a fragrance of somewhat-fraudulent-but-hell-who's-counting kindness, now he savagely elbows them out of the way and hopes to god the gory tableau of death stays in the wing mirror. it's zero dark thirty and he's suffocating. it shall be so. madness in great ones must not unwatched go, but it is only a few crazies who have from the crazy place unbroken. tell me you love me. tell me about bane. tell me about my videodrome problem.

before he knows it he's re-entering earth's atmosphere and concludes that longing on a large scale makes history, which he won't.