In much the same way Ginger used to worriedly pick between Gilligan or Skipper each night, I used to ponder, when riding an elevator stuffed with strangers, which of my co-inhabitants in the tiny box I would relent to have sexual relations with if the lift were to get stuck between floors with a flat tire in the middle of the ocean. It was the song Aerosmith forgot to write. Nowadays, as a semi-quasi-grown-up adult, I instead debate which track on Forgotten Lovers by Gary Wilson would be worth a naked snuggle or two:
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