My slightly cross-eyed siren of the static age. Possessed icon of lunar frenzy. Proud insatiable Every Woman. Archetypal sad reward at the end of the American night. Interstate diner floozy too busy lighting a smoke to fasten all those pesky blouse buttons. Happy to lean in lower than necessary when sliding burnt offerings across gleaming Formica. Glad to lend a hand to a kind wayward stranger. You, with lusty thighs defiant. Harbinger of pantyhose. The bastard cancer devoured you and yet, still, you remain more alive than many. I can only hope you took the slow dread of disintegration with that same pleased, swollen, crocodilian pout that - even now, at the most inappropriate of moments - causes something to stir and flutter deep below the belt. He Who Kills has called. Take it smiling. Take it easy. Farewell, Dark Beauty.
xoxoDD
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Invaders from Mars
Tobe Hooper
1986
Project Bluebeam
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