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My refrigerator and I speak occasionallyIt's not much during the day. White, drab. Bland. Humming, bumming.
Night. We converse at night. I open the door and a community, a whole society, awaits me.
I'm particularly fond of Jeff, the pickle jar. He's full of these witty little jokes. They make my spleen writhe; they're just so funny. There's nothing quite like it.
He wants this girl. Her name is Bethany. She's a bottle of grey mustard, slouched in the back corner with other condiments.
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