The apartment mate is watching a black and white flick from the fifties featuring a famous star who also produced the film. There are two voices responding to and speaking for the irrational characters on screen.
Coincidentally, there are two people living in this apartment.
It's a horrible movie. Badly written, and badly acted.
The star hamming it up makes it worse.
Classic cinema.
"You were never a liar, Kate."
"Just a conniving psychopath!"
"But I love him, I tell you!"
"You turned him into a newt!"
"That's just the foghorn, it's speaking to you."
"True love is forever. That means heaven."
"How you say such drivel with a straight face?"
"The voices, the voices, they made me do it. I didn't want to, I tell you, but sometimes a woman has to just push a bitch off the train."
"Especially if she's wearing my hat."
"I swear I've seen the same train in John Wayne movies."
"It was taken over by Twinings, and the bastards don't make it anymore!"
That last comment was pursuant Jackson's of Piccadilly, which according to her made the best Russian Caravan. She also laments the unavailability locally of Schokinag, whose chocolate mixes were heavenly.
"Oh Jesus Christ! Chocolate matcha green tea powder! It's probiotic! These people are nuts!"
Okay, she's tired of the weird romantic drama on screen, and is now cruising the internet for drinks. Hot chocolate, Russian Caravan tea.
What's that sound? It's grunting and it sounds constipated.
Now she's ooing over shoes.
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