So, I had to squeeze an elf's head with my bare hands to get the goo out from inside. (That's the sentence! That's the one I never would have even thought to speak!). And that's when an interesting thought passed through my mind. That thought being— "I should go to hell for this."
And therein lies an interesting distinction. Not, "I am going to hell for this," but "I should go to hell for this." Of course, I'm not, at least not for that at any rate (Santa doesn't call the shots on those matters). Still, I am squeezing an elf's head with my hands, goo running between my fingers, drippin' down my arm, staining my clothes, in a very real (and very gross) way. And the thing is when squeezing out an elf's head filled with goo encased in a sort of velvety-textured plastic, well, it feels a lot like the real thing.
The only real distinction being that in my case, the elf has been bludgeoned so horribly and perfidiously that its heart, brain, bones, eyes, viscera, &c. have conjugated so finely that there is no longer any discernible difference between one or the other.
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