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Happy Birthday to Me photo

This movie is a semiotic fuck you more esoteric and dastardly than even my French-boy poetic ass could properly sit still about. An 80s Canadian slasher so convoluted in its twisting the veil finds traction in your inner ear. By the time the soap opera video lighting shits you an answer, there are no questions left, no world to recline, no theater to your scalp, no, no, no, it’s over. As an artist, you will resign. Le premiere bullshit has been slung at our aesthetic maw. I beg this movie to mean something. You know me. I seem to have taken up breathing at a time when that action is least commendable. Study this movie’s infection. How I hollered in my turn for coherent plot, valuing message over style, as somehow I now do. I was a tortured Dan Brown fan. Who the fuck what? The way nothing happens can sometimes pinch one so. I need my bandages and Mickey Mouse sometimes. Need sup sup bottle time. Cure me of my swaddle. Confection of our diapered Christ or name your deity (I regret Christ because proximity), find me in whatever origin bubble of multi-verse, feeling sassy about entropy and Big Freeze, and tell me, sniff, opinions count.