When I was the young daughter of a powerful dignitary, I found a key and used it to unlock the shutters of the porthole on the starboard side of the Girls Locker Room at my school. Thus I got to see all my senior classmates in the raw. But the administrative staff caught me red-handed, and they punished me by sending me to detention.
Life is hell: nobody can find a job — in order to obtain a sustainable source of food, one must either become a stripper or spend the best hours of the night inside the grocery store posing as a cat-burglar.
But times were nice, back when I possessed the key to the Girls Locker Room: then I could kick back and relax, and just watch all the upperclasswomen remove their blouses and culottes as they change into their water-resistant cat-suits. (This recalls that time when I accidentally entered the dressing room of a lobster who was in the process of molting.) And if I ever find the key to the portside shutters, I’ll be able to observe the goings-on in the shower area, where the felines all splash around together hunting for clams, mussels, and sea urchins.
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