She doesn’t know when she fell asleep, but when she wakes up it’s late night, it’s cold and her phone is flashing due to notifications of her last post on Instagram. She can’t even remember what she posted, but her agent is bombing her phone like a second world war bomber, so she can suppose that it ain’t something good. Furthermore, she’s sleeping in BoJack Horseman bed. The most optimistic scenario she can think of is a selfie of the two of them having sex and spitting at the President having a speech on tv.
She just woke up, and still her whole body is frying like a McDonald’s nugget. She has been drinking, and sniffing, and screaming, and watching Horsing Around all the day, and now her head is just floating in the silence, like there’s nothing in that room that she’s actually touching. Her skin is warm, and so his BoJack’s, and that’s all that matters.
While looking at him, half of her naked body under his sheets, her left nostril still covered in magic white powder, she can’t figure out which sound would make two stars colliding. Two giant burning stones crashing one into another like cars in Venice Beach, where the air smells salty, is dry and there are two coffee-shop for each sweaty pumped jerk lifting weights with their eighty-like-stereo-music by their side.
Venice Beach is full of cliché. Hollywoo is full of cliché. Even her life, the unstoppable downfall of a child star from a ninety sitcom, is a cliché. She’s a pussy hiding between two cars waiting for the life to rage again on her and hit her with a good amount of shit, like a stupid Bond-girl from 007 films taking cover from bullets and being totally useless until the James Bond of that decade will come and fuck her.
Actually, Sarah-Lynn isn’t that surprised she’s fallen in love with BoJack Horseman. Well, no, she has not fallen in love, but it’s just like - just like he’s got something of that light that she had lost years ago, and this is sad, because, to be honest, BoJack is the most non-shiny person she can think of.
There’s this picture of him in her head, in which he’s wearing a bright orange jumper with apples on it, and his hair is ruffled and savage and sexy like Mel Gibson’s one in Lethal Weapon, a picture where he smiles, even if he’s still an asshole with set assistants and he absolutely doesn’t want the fat girl to bring him coffee, because fat girls ruin his day. She grew up remembering that BoJack Horseman on the set, the one that rode the wave of glory with his arms behind his head and a hundred women in a row ready to suck his dick like he was actually Mel Gibson, and now that she has ridden his dick, he’s just the BoJack Horseman with the sad blue jumper and a few white hairs in his mane.
Maybe she’s just too late, again. She always is, she always was on the set and she will always be, she feels like she will be late for her own funeral, too. But she can’t help but think that, somehow, BoJack has got her light, her tiny, weak light.
He's like the straw she set on fire before dying, and he's burning right now, while sleeping rolled up in the sheets, and he's dying too, but he's taking down a whole stinky haystack with him, and there's a crowd of furious farmers looking at him and trying to put out the fire.
Sarah-Lynn, instead, is just vanishing. There are a few stars in the sky of Los Angeles, and still you can't say when one of them dies, and that's exactly how she feels: she's burning herself out and nobody is noticing it. She’s holding on to BoJack, wishing she'll be able to survive as long as he is going to be with her, but he’s too hot and her icy hands are melting. By the moment that someone besides him will see that she's gone, she will be a sad puddle of water at their feet already.
For the first time in her life, she thinks that maybe she could have used a prince, a brave handsome guy on his white strong steed, but BoJack… he is the steed, a big, old, alcoholic and self-destructive steed. Still, she can't do anything but ride him towards the horizon and the end of her fable.
When BoJack rolls on the belly, snorting, and she's still looking at him like she can wake him up like that and make him cheer her up, Los Angeles gets enlightened by fireworks from somewhere in Hollywoo. She doesn't like fireworks, she hates them and, if she was a dog, she would just hide until they end, but all she can do, right now, shivering like a Sharon Stone’s assistant on a bad-day of hers, is looking for a refuge under Bojack’s right arm, hoping he won’t wake up, after all, because when they’re both up they keep lying to each other: “I’m not drunk”, “this weed is natural shit”, “I hope things will stay like this forever”.
She doesn’t want things to stay like this. But they will, until the end. BoJack is still hot as hell and she’s an icy star clashing into him, fireworks are scaring her and she’s starting to cry, the whole world is going to forget her as soon as she’ll die and there’s this echo in her head, bombing her temples, this mean voice telling her that she’s nothing but another of those child star fallen in disgrace, like the “Home Alone” kid and Lindsay Lohan. It’s constant, it’s heavy, and most of all, it’s true. She’s going to be another meme on Facebook and even BoJack will forget her. But, for now, he just puts an hand on her head and strokes her, like he’s awake.
Maybe he is, but they can both pretend they’re sleeping.
Fireworks are still shaking BoJack’s bedroom windows, and Sarah-Lynn is still hiding like a Bond-girl, even after her James Bond already came and fucked her. She’s afraid as hell and she’s going to die soon. She knows it, and she accepts it. Though, she can go knowing that, even if BoJack can’t shine, he can at least keep her light forever.