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“I’m the ghost of Christmas past or whatever,” said Sarah Lynn.

“Pretty sure you’re just a manifestation of my guilt,” said BoJack.

“Could a manifestation do this?”

They waited.

“Do what? You’re not doing anything.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, we’re done here. It was nice to see you again, Sarah Lynn. I really need to get on with my lucid dreaming. Hollyhock and I are going to Universal tomorrow and I need to be rested.”

“Which parks?”

“She wants to see Harry Potter world.”

“Oh man,” Sarah Lynn sat up, the dream-bed springs creaking. “I totally had a crush on Ron Weasel.”

“Weasley.”

“Those whiskers,” she sighed, touching above her lips.

“I really don’t need to be having this conversation. Goodbye.”

“Wait!” BoJack stopped, Sarah Lynn’s dream-hand clasping the edge of his sleeve. With extreme reluctance, he turned around again.

“Listen, I was just getting over you being dead and I don’t need—“

“Mr. Horse?”

Suddenly, Sarah Lynn was nine. Her overalls fit.

“Mr. Horse, Ethan pushed me down the stairs and I hurt my arm.”

“No you didn’t,” said BoJack. “I already talked about this with four therapists, one of which cured Lindsay Lohan and patched up Charlie Sheen’s relationship with the tiger community. Hashtag “Tiger Bud” not “Tiger Blood”. Try again.”

Sarah Lynn pouted, eyes big and innocent.

“No,” BoJack repeated, wearing his orange apple sweater and the wrong shoes.

“Please?”

“No.”

“...BoJack?” It was Charlotte, hand in hand with Herb. “We were just looking for you.”

“You piece of shit,” agreed Herb.

This was just a dream.

BoJack closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was in the Pig’s Squeal Comedy Club.

“That’s better,” he said, pulling at his collar.

“You suck!” shouted a heckler.

“Uh,” BoJack blinked. “Like Monica, am I right?”

“It’s 2017, jackass!” yelled the heckler. “Get some new material!”

The spotlight narrowed, and BoJack felt sweat gather on the back of his neck.

“Have you heard the one about the gays in Aruba?”

“Not cool, BoJack,” Todd said, shrugging beside him. He raised a finger. “Homosexuality is a valid sexual preference.”

“What are you doing here? You weren’t even born yet.”

“That’s no excuse for your behavior, BoJack. I wish I could, but I can’t always be around to help you out.”

“Boo!” yelled the heckler, who was his mother. “Change the channel!”

Glaring, BoJack struggled with his tie before throwing it down on stage. He turned on his heel and left.

He walked into Mr. Peanutbutter’s house.

“Great,” said BoJack.

“I don’t know how I feel about him,” Diane was whispering. “Sometimes I think he’s the only person who really gets me. But he’s so messed up. I can’t take a chance on another wrong decision right now.”

“Sorry,” said Siri. “I didn’t catch that.”

Diane sighed and lay down on the sofa, the phone held above her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Anything I can do?” BoJack asked, sitting beside her and pulling her feet into his lap.

“It’s not for you to decide,” Diane reminded him. “Not everything revolves around you.”

“It’s my dream. Everything is about me.”

“That’s the problem!” Diane accused, “You’re not dreaming!”

BoJack blinked.

“What?”

“You’re high and you’ve been talking to that painting for an hour now.”

“Oh.” BoJack gave it a closer look. “Who is that?”

“David Boreanaz.”

“Figures. Hey how long has It been?”

“You’ve been here since seven.”

“AM?”

Someone was shaking his shoulder vigorously. “Rise and shine, my superstar!”

BoJack groaned. He was disembodied, so that was the best of his options.

“Rise and shine! The early cat catches the rat! Or vivaciously sexy mouse in my case.”

He shuddered, body forming from numb parts that fit together crooked.

Letting go of Sabrina’s hand, he followed her into the living room in front of the empty studio audience.

“This is it,” said little Sarah Lynn. “Merry Christmas, BoJack! Thanks everyone for joining us tonight! And remember: Suck a dick, dumb shi—“

The stage lights shut off and BoJack saw himself alone in the audience. Watching.

“What are you doing here?”

The other BoJack didn’t say anything, but he did whinny.

He backed away slowly, then started to fall from the Louisville bridge. Secretariat fell beside him, eyes bloodshot.

“I don’t get the joke,” said Secretariat.

“Me neither,” BoJack admitted.

Then there was nothing.

And nothing.

And nothing.

And nothing.

...

Then light.

And smell.

The couch dipped underneath him, but BoJack kept his eyes closed.

“Tell me you’re real.”

“Real sorry you’re not gonna get any of these pancakes,” said Hollyhock. “‘Cause you sure are missing out. A wizard needs his fuel, you know.”

It sounded like real sound. It smelled like real smell. It felt like real lumpy couch.

I can’t take a chance on another wrong decision right now.

He wasn’t Diane.

BoJack took a deep breath and opened his eyes.