You're the Worst (2014–…): Season 3, Episode 2 - Fix Me, Dummy - full transcript
Gretchen starts therapy; Jimmy's confidence wavers; Lindsay neglects a bedridden Paul.
The five most truly
free moments of a human's life
in ascending order...
Leaving his parents' home,
dumping a girl hard,
deciding to eat a whole pizza,
hammocks...
and finishing a writing project.
Jimmy, did you finish
your book proposal?
Your sarcasm
is but an impotent
fusillade of arrows
plinking off the Sherman tank
that is my relief.
Nay, it is
a Verdi aria to my brand-new
cochlear implants,
for it means 'tis true I indeed
finished my book proposal.
Also I am exceedingly drunk
and cannot trust
my grip on the truth.
"Grip."
Oh...
Um...
Uh, sorry.
I just need to grab my, um...
Oh, what are those? Gimme.
Uh, they're boring.
I finally saw that psychiatrist.
He put me on these.
He's making me see
this stupid therapist
for the talky-talky.
I always wondered, what
exactly is the difference
between a psychiatrist
and a therapist?
A psychiatrist is like,
"Here, take this pills, ho."
A therapist is all,
"Oh, tell me your shit.
I couldn't make it as an actor."
I'm bored.
Let's go to the bar. Ugh.
I have to go to that
stupid therapist.
Don't worry, it won't take long.
I'll go in there,
she'll wave her magic wand,
and boom, Gretchen's 100.
Oh, you're moving out.
Thank God.
Make sure you leave
your mattress
on the curb before you go.
And spray paint "unclean" on it,
in Spanish.
No, Dorothy found a place.
Thanks for letting me crash.
I will leave a check
for all the stuff I broke.
Kidding.
Edgar, why in God's name
haven't you been opening
the mail?
You made mail Gretchen's,
as you said, "one little chore."
Well, I already have
one little chore.
Aw, Jimmy's dick... ya burnt.
No, he's right.
"Gretchen opens the mail"
is on the chore list.
Right under
"Jimmy takes out trash,
His own butt."
Fine. I'll get to it.
Never.
Damn. Big day for burns.
Ooh.
Ugh. Hey, um,
I just wanted to say thank you
for valuing my opinion. I don't.
Never have.
Worse than a dog's opinion.
What are you talking about?
Your book proposal.
First of all,
it's a really great start.
I love the world.
But I thought I'd do
the 10,000-feet notes first,
and then we'd go page by page,
hmm?
Hmm. How about you literally
throw them in the trash?
The proposal went out already.
Well, then, why did you
have me read it?
Because I wanted you to go,
"Wow, you're so smart, Jimmy.
I could never do that;
I'm a stupid baby."
♪ I'm gonna leave you anyway
♪ I'm gonna leave you anyway ♪
♪ Gonna leave you anyway.
I understand your frustrations,
but sometimes
hearing others' opinions can,
at worst, make us feel more
confident in our decisions.
Wow.
For a therapist,
you are a wretched listener.
I didn't ask him for notes,
because one, my proposal
went out already,
though I've heard nothing,
which is potentially worrisome.
And two, I don't even know
for sure that he can read,
let alone comprehend
the sui generis,
unabashedly erotic,
multigenerational,
literary family epic.
Gretchen,
you said you wanted Jimmy here
because he can help tell
the story of your depression.
Sorry, what?
Can you tell me why you're here?
No. Can you?
I thought the happy pills
were supposed to fix me.
He had notes.
What notes?
The proposal is perfect.
Talk therapy
along with medication
is the most effective
long-term approach
to managing depression.
You mean, beating depression.
Winning depression.
Oh, I like that.
That's not a thing. Winning it.
Let's start here.
Name one small thing
you've been avoiding.
I already did one small
thing this morning.
Aw, rough day for Jimmy's dick.
So, we done?
We can be done,
or you can do the next thing.
Self-improvement
is a lifelong process.
How is this a real profession?
This feels like a scam.
It's not a scam.
I calls 'em like I sees 'em.
I still don't understand
why my issues are unimportant
to you people.
I want you to make a to-do list,
but with just one thing on it
at a time.
I don't have anything
I need to do.
You want to fight?
Oh, are you trying to fight me?
'Cause we can go.
Can't you just assign me
the one thing?
Oh, I will.
Launder your clothes.
Don't wear your shoes to bed.
Stop giving Killian food.
Titty massages for Jimmy.
That's when the girl runs
her dangling titties
up and down your body.
It's quite nice.
Wash your legs.
What? I don't wash my legs.
Okay. Fine.
Mail.
There is a stack of mail
that I have been avoiding.
Why? They always want money,
or you have jury duty,
or your grandma sent you a check
for your birthday,
and then you feel guilty
that you never call her,
and then you can't get
out of bed for a month.
Anyway... mail.
Does that count
for your stupid-ass...?
Ugh, sorry.
It's all right,
I'm a professional.
You can say anything you want
in here.
Hmm.
Anything?
Really?
Does opening the mail count
for your one little
asshole thing,
you goddamn cock?
You suck-balls dumb dick?
Sure. Fine,
jizz-magnet.
I will open one piece of mail.
Say "whore."
Whore. Whore.
I'm regretting giving you
license to say anything.
Plus I do kind of want
to fight you right now.
Too late.
No take-backsies.
Titty-sucking bitch.
Ow.
Lindsay, it hurts.
I know.
It'll be over soon.
Well,
it's not often I get
to fill your holes, huh?
Oh, I'm falling so far behind
on my big year.
Rhett Gherkins has spotted
a paint-billed crake, Lindsay.
A paint-billed crake! I know,
but his wife has no tits
and looks like a Gila monster.
Ow.
No, don't make me laugh.
Ow!
I'm sorry.
I'm so annoying.
You're fine, bear.
I'm a terrible patient.
When I had the mumps,
Mother threatened to send me
to foster care.
Pill time, hmm?
And wash it down with this.
This is so much medicine.
Well, maybe you shouldn't
have backed into my knife.
It's just like me
to go backing into things.
I crawled in reverse
until I was two.
I'm so stupid.
I'd better go refill
these again.
Credit card, please?
I don't remember
taking all that.
You keep taking extra
and you don't remember it.
Bye, now.
Please hurry back.
This is on Paul, right? Yes.
What a poor
little patient he is.
I was so caught up
preparing the mise en place,
I didn't see him.
He ran right into my knife.
I didn't even push that deep.
Lindsay.
How are your pancakes?
Are you saying that you,
on purpose,
like murderer-style, stabbed Paul?
No.
What? No.
I loved him.
Love?
Right.
He's my current husband.
I love him now. I do.
Now I'm wishing
I got the pancakes.
I can't believe that bitch
gave me homework.
No, you fix me, dummy.
You know what?
I'm a goddamn A.F. adult.
I quit.
She can suck it.
Fine.
Since you won't let it go,
tell me one
of your stupid notes.
Okay.
Ah, macro.
Uh, was the sex supposed
to be erotic or disturbing?
Both. Dumb note. Next.
Yeah, I wasn't sure
the "randy, Bohemian aunt"
made sense as a character.
You don't make sense
as a character.
Very one-note. Next.
Why do Kitty and Simon
install a two-way mirror?
Right, give me those.
Okay.
Actually, I have to move Dorothy
into her new apartment today
and... I could use some help.
I'll come.
Oh, thanks, Jimmy.
I've been a little rocky lately,
and I could really
use the support.
Oh, I'm not helping.
I'm coming so that I can
eviscerate your notes,
one by one, to show you
how dumb you are.
Oh, and if you must know,
they install the mirror
because they're siblings.
So, obviously, they can't
partake in each other's
tight, little bodies,
but this way, at least,
they can observe each other's
erotic dalliances.
Duh.
I just want you to know
I am not coming back!
First of all...
I am with a patient.
Wait, what?
No, I'm angry!
Get out.
I'm so sorry.
So, last night,
guess your body adjusted
to the new pills, after all.
Yeah, guess so.
Good, because that
whole thing that I said
about non-penetrative sex,
check, please.
So, the apartment
could be cute, right?
If I pick up some
extra Chore Monkey shifts
to buy a couch,
and figure out how
to hide those weird pipes.
The baby handprints
on the ceiling
are a little disconcerting,
but you can't see them at night.
Edgar?
Have you noticed how many more
tent cities there are lately?
Do you know any of them?
Any ex-hobo girlfriends
that I need to beat up?
Sorry, bad time for comedy?
No, it's-it's fine.
No, I'm sorry.
This is your big day.
Yeah!
I am moving into a beautiful
studio in WeHoCa.
That's L.A.'s newest,
hip neighborhood:
West of Homeless Encampment.
Hey.
I think it could be so cute.
Right? I think so.
Thanks. I mean...
it's obviously an idiotic note,
but, gun to my head,
I could show the origin
of Malcolm and Sally's
erotic coupling.
Well, if I did that,
then I'd be introducing a
soupçon of narrative Anschauung,
which would allow me to get
inside Clementine's head
when she allows the punk rock
bassist she's just met
urinate on her britches.
This is so stupid.
Okay.
How can I help you, Gretchen?
Nice magazines.
So boring, I almost died
rather than read them.
You obviously want very badly
for me to understand something.
You told me there were things
I could do, insinuating that
I could have fixed myself
any time I wanted,
and that is negating my story.
It is tired.
It is patriarchal,
and it is rape culture-y.
You are basically
a rape apologist.
I don't believe you don't
believe therapy can help.
Why don't you don't tell me more
about how I don't feel?
You really want to quit? Yes.
Okay, then.
It was nice to have met you.
You are memorable.
You know... I'm proud of you for
standing up for what you want.
Who are you, my mom?
Joke's on you.
My mom would never say that.
I know you're not my mommy.
Like, what if I started
calling you "Mommy"?
How weird would that be?
I'm gonna go in now.
Good luck, Gretchen.
Bitch.
I really like the adjustments.
Well, your asinine notes
started a thought process
of actual, usable fixes.
I had to cut the scene
in the cockpit of the plane
where Joachim Kirschner
masturbates
during his bombing
run on London,
but the section
is still highly erotic.
Did you take out the thing
with Roger spanking his nephew?
What, you let Dorothy read it?!
I thought the sample
chapters were great...
Thank you.
It's so nice to hear from fans.
Just potentially
very alienating to women.
This is literature, okay?
It shall sing its own song,
uncaring if sensibilities
are too delicate.
Anyway, it feels like
we keep forgetting
the proposal's in already.
It's done.
Okay.
Just so many descriptions
of semen on stockings.
Stockings are a sign
both of the deprivation
of the Second World War
and how much the repressed.
Kitty's slutty little legs
wanted semen on them!
What is alienating about that?
Uh, hey.
Uh... are people being
generous today?
Man, I ain't got
jack shit yet today.
Hmm, well, you know,
I was noticing that, um,
y-your sign's
a little confusing.
It looks like you need money
for dog food for yourself.
No, I-I need money
for my dog, food, and beer.
May I?
Yeah, please.
Oh, that is clearer.
Thanks, man.
- Yeah.
- How's mine?
Between you and me,
civvies feel super guilty
around us veterans,
so they've trained
themselves to ignore us.
So, um...
uh, you know may-maybe
write something funny instead.
Like what?
Well, can I get a...
like, a suggestion
of a topic from one of you guys?
You know, something light.
Cookies. Demon rape.
I heard "cookies."
Um... oh, all right.
How about, uh,
"Can only afford Hydrox,
need money for Oreos."
Because they're
discount-ass Oreos.
Yeah, that's funny.
Wr-Write that.
All right.
To think you know
how other people
should think and feel.
That is someone with something
seriously wrong with them.
That's psychopath behavior.
So what do we do
when she finally comes out?
We follow her home
and egg her house. Duh.
I had a better plan,
but apparently pig's blood is,
like, 12 bucks a quart.
Can I have some more of those?
Those are good.
Gretchen...
tell me what I may
or may not have...
maybe did by sorta-or-
not-mistake is okay.
I'm not gonna absolve you
for stabbing Paul.
What?! I didn't!
Are you crazy?
Who's watching Paul, anyway?
He's fine. I set him up
with a pile of DVDs
and yummy sandwiches.
Please.
Please go in.
Please.
Please.
Please go in.
Last one.
Please!
Yes.
Yes!
Where's the thing?
Where's the...
What are you doing?
Nothing. What? Me and my
girlfriend were just making out.
No.
Don't... no.
Okay.
I don't know. Nothing.
I was just gonna follow you home
or whatever.
Why?
To egg you.
Not necessarily!
I just wanted, you know,
to prove that you don't have
any right to judge me. Obviously.
You're right.
I don't. Good night.
Being vulnerable makes me angry!
I get that.
Being vulnerable is scary.
But most people don't even try.
Like my boyfriend. He never
wants to talk about his stuff.
He just squashes it down
and keeps it all on lock.
Okay. So what happens to people
like your boyfriend?
Oh, no... I don't know.
We'll see, I guess.
Hopefully he stops wearing
zip-up cargo shorts.
But I know locked-down shit
eventually becomes
unlocked-down.
Eventually, a person has
to start taking responsibility
for their own life.
See? There it is.
You're-you're blaming me again.
Calls 'em like I sees 'em.
What was that you were saying
about taking responsibility? Ow.
Look, I can guide,
but a patient
has to do the work themselves.
Eventually we all have to take
responsibility for our own life.
So, I'll see you next week,
maybe?
And don't stalk me again.
'Cause you guys suck at it.
I am so wet right now.
Back off, bitch.
That part you just read,
it sounds too fancy. Like, just
make the language more regular.
Tristan and Iris
are from upper-crust,
early 20th century London.
Why can't he just say
something like,
"Iris, your twat's
driving me up the wall"?
Okay. Anything else?
Shouldn't Simon
and... the redhead...
Kitty.
Yeah. Kitty.
Shouldn't they end up together
so people are happy?
But theirs is
a taboo love forbidden
by our current, ironically
more repressive society.
Okay. That's a good note.
All right.
Find a different ending,
colloquialize the language
in the first third,
find motivation
for the face-sitting,
a few other tweaks.
All right, thank you, everybody.
Here we are. Also,
there's too much sex.
♪
Edgar?
What are you doing?
So, I was thinking,
"From future.
Time machine's broken.
Need money for plutonium."
Then, in parentheses,
"FYI, the Cowboys win
the Super Bowl next year."
What do you think?
What is going on with you?
I got out of it.
But they're still here.
Plus, I have useful
comedic skills and a Sharpie.
I think that it's really nice
that you want to help them,
but how 'bout helping
your girlfriend?
Isn't that why you're here?
You don't need it,
not like they do.
You have a place to live.
Maybe we could get the rest
of my stuff upstairs,
and then we could use the boxes
to help you make some signs.
Thank you.
- Paul? Sweetheart?
- Wha...
Lindsay? Is that you?
It is.
Poor dear.
Paul?
Hmm?
I'm sorry I was gone all day.
I'm prepared to...
take responsibility for that.
Do you forgive me?
Of course I forgive y... Great!
I took responsibility,
and now it's in the past.
Whoosh! Gone.
I'll make us Red Napkin.
I love you.
Of course.
We're family.
Ow.
♪
Should we just give up?
Yeah, guess so.
I just keep thinking
about my book.
Therapist all up in my cabeza.
We're better than this!
I don't know why I'm
so scared of doing
some stupid,
Dr. Phil bullshit task.
She's the one making it seem
like this Miyagi test.
That's it. I'm gonna open
this goddamn mail.
Then I'm gonna call my agent and
tell him to pull the proposal.
Maybe this isn't even the book
that I want to write.
Who knows?
Gas bill. Easy.
Oh. Yeah, right, electricity.
I'm not paying you.
No, I don't want
your stupid magazine!
Nope.
No.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Gretchen!
My book! My book!
The proposal sold!
Ha! Suck it,
Edgar and-and Dorothy
and that cop, old lady,
and businesswoman.
I did it. Ha!
I did it!
Oh, my God, that's-that's great.
Um, have you... have you talked
to your family recently?
Mwah!
Hell no. I blocked
all their numbers
after their
disastrous visit. Why?
Nothing.
We get the offer on Monday.
God, I love being a writer!
I mean, not that I'm surprised.
This one felt so good, you know?
I sure left it all on the page
with this one.
And my faith in it
never wavered. Not really.
Nope, never wavered at all.
♪
♪ My eyes are tired
♪ And I'm a liar
♪ I wish I had grace
♪ But I can re-erase.
♪
Captioned by
Media Access Group at WGBH
free moments of a human's life
in ascending order...
Leaving his parents' home,
dumping a girl hard,
deciding to eat a whole pizza,
hammocks...
and finishing a writing project.
Jimmy, did you finish
your book proposal?
Your sarcasm
is but an impotent
fusillade of arrows
plinking off the Sherman tank
that is my relief.
Nay, it is
a Verdi aria to my brand-new
cochlear implants,
for it means 'tis true I indeed
finished my book proposal.
Also I am exceedingly drunk
and cannot trust
my grip on the truth.
"Grip."
Oh...
Um...
Uh, sorry.
I just need to grab my, um...
Oh, what are those? Gimme.
Uh, they're boring.
I finally saw that psychiatrist.
He put me on these.
He's making me see
this stupid therapist
for the talky-talky.
I always wondered, what
exactly is the difference
between a psychiatrist
and a therapist?
A psychiatrist is like,
"Here, take this pills, ho."
A therapist is all,
"Oh, tell me your shit.
I couldn't make it as an actor."
I'm bored.
Let's go to the bar. Ugh.
I have to go to that
stupid therapist.
Don't worry, it won't take long.
I'll go in there,
she'll wave her magic wand,
and boom, Gretchen's 100.
Oh, you're moving out.
Thank God.
Make sure you leave
your mattress
on the curb before you go.
And spray paint "unclean" on it,
in Spanish.
No, Dorothy found a place.
Thanks for letting me crash.
I will leave a check
for all the stuff I broke.
Kidding.
Edgar, why in God's name
haven't you been opening
the mail?
You made mail Gretchen's,
as you said, "one little chore."
Well, I already have
one little chore.
Aw, Jimmy's dick... ya burnt.
No, he's right.
"Gretchen opens the mail"
is on the chore list.
Right under
"Jimmy takes out trash,
His own butt."
Fine. I'll get to it.
Never.
Damn. Big day for burns.
Ooh.
Ugh. Hey, um,
I just wanted to say thank you
for valuing my opinion. I don't.
Never have.
Worse than a dog's opinion.
What are you talking about?
Your book proposal.
First of all,
it's a really great start.
I love the world.
But I thought I'd do
the 10,000-feet notes first,
and then we'd go page by page,
hmm?
Hmm. How about you literally
throw them in the trash?
The proposal went out already.
Well, then, why did you
have me read it?
Because I wanted you to go,
"Wow, you're so smart, Jimmy.
I could never do that;
I'm a stupid baby."
♪ I'm gonna leave you anyway
♪ I'm gonna leave you anyway ♪
♪ Gonna leave you anyway.
I understand your frustrations,
but sometimes
hearing others' opinions can,
at worst, make us feel more
confident in our decisions.
Wow.
For a therapist,
you are a wretched listener.
I didn't ask him for notes,
because one, my proposal
went out already,
though I've heard nothing,
which is potentially worrisome.
And two, I don't even know
for sure that he can read,
let alone comprehend
the sui generis,
unabashedly erotic,
multigenerational,
literary family epic.
Gretchen,
you said you wanted Jimmy here
because he can help tell
the story of your depression.
Sorry, what?
Can you tell me why you're here?
No. Can you?
I thought the happy pills
were supposed to fix me.
He had notes.
What notes?
The proposal is perfect.
Talk therapy
along with medication
is the most effective
long-term approach
to managing depression.
You mean, beating depression.
Winning depression.
Oh, I like that.
That's not a thing. Winning it.
Let's start here.
Name one small thing
you've been avoiding.
I already did one small
thing this morning.
Aw, rough day for Jimmy's dick.
So, we done?
We can be done,
or you can do the next thing.
Self-improvement
is a lifelong process.
How is this a real profession?
This feels like a scam.
It's not a scam.
I calls 'em like I sees 'em.
I still don't understand
why my issues are unimportant
to you people.
I want you to make a to-do list,
but with just one thing on it
at a time.
I don't have anything
I need to do.
You want to fight?
Oh, are you trying to fight me?
'Cause we can go.
Can't you just assign me
the one thing?
Oh, I will.
Launder your clothes.
Don't wear your shoes to bed.
Stop giving Killian food.
Titty massages for Jimmy.
That's when the girl runs
her dangling titties
up and down your body.
It's quite nice.
Wash your legs.
What? I don't wash my legs.
Okay. Fine.
Mail.
There is a stack of mail
that I have been avoiding.
Why? They always want money,
or you have jury duty,
or your grandma sent you a check
for your birthday,
and then you feel guilty
that you never call her,
and then you can't get
out of bed for a month.
Anyway... mail.
Does that count
for your stupid-ass...?
Ugh, sorry.
It's all right,
I'm a professional.
You can say anything you want
in here.
Hmm.
Anything?
Really?
Does opening the mail count
for your one little
asshole thing,
you goddamn cock?
You suck-balls dumb dick?
Sure. Fine,
jizz-magnet.
I will open one piece of mail.
Say "whore."
Whore. Whore.
I'm regretting giving you
license to say anything.
Plus I do kind of want
to fight you right now.
Too late.
No take-backsies.
Titty-sucking bitch.
Ow.
Lindsay, it hurts.
I know.
It'll be over soon.
Well,
it's not often I get
to fill your holes, huh?
Oh, I'm falling so far behind
on my big year.
Rhett Gherkins has spotted
a paint-billed crake, Lindsay.
A paint-billed crake! I know,
but his wife has no tits
and looks like a Gila monster.
Ow.
No, don't make me laugh.
Ow!
I'm sorry.
I'm so annoying.
You're fine, bear.
I'm a terrible patient.
When I had the mumps,
Mother threatened to send me
to foster care.
Pill time, hmm?
And wash it down with this.
This is so much medicine.
Well, maybe you shouldn't
have backed into my knife.
It's just like me
to go backing into things.
I crawled in reverse
until I was two.
I'm so stupid.
I'd better go refill
these again.
Credit card, please?
I don't remember
taking all that.
You keep taking extra
and you don't remember it.
Bye, now.
Please hurry back.
This is on Paul, right? Yes.
What a poor
little patient he is.
I was so caught up
preparing the mise en place,
I didn't see him.
He ran right into my knife.
I didn't even push that deep.
Lindsay.
How are your pancakes?
Are you saying that you,
on purpose,
like murderer-style, stabbed Paul?
No.
What? No.
I loved him.
Love?
Right.
He's my current husband.
I love him now. I do.
Now I'm wishing
I got the pancakes.
I can't believe that bitch
gave me homework.
No, you fix me, dummy.
You know what?
I'm a goddamn A.F. adult.
I quit.
She can suck it.
Fine.
Since you won't let it go,
tell me one
of your stupid notes.
Okay.
Ah, macro.
Uh, was the sex supposed
to be erotic or disturbing?
Both. Dumb note. Next.
Yeah, I wasn't sure
the "randy, Bohemian aunt"
made sense as a character.
You don't make sense
as a character.
Very one-note. Next.
Why do Kitty and Simon
install a two-way mirror?
Right, give me those.
Okay.
Actually, I have to move Dorothy
into her new apartment today
and... I could use some help.
I'll come.
Oh, thanks, Jimmy.
I've been a little rocky lately,
and I could really
use the support.
Oh, I'm not helping.
I'm coming so that I can
eviscerate your notes,
one by one, to show you
how dumb you are.
Oh, and if you must know,
they install the mirror
because they're siblings.
So, obviously, they can't
partake in each other's
tight, little bodies,
but this way, at least,
they can observe each other's
erotic dalliances.
Duh.
I just want you to know
I am not coming back!
First of all...
I am with a patient.
Wait, what?
No, I'm angry!
Get out.
I'm so sorry.
So, last night,
guess your body adjusted
to the new pills, after all.
Yeah, guess so.
Good, because that
whole thing that I said
about non-penetrative sex,
check, please.
So, the apartment
could be cute, right?
If I pick up some
extra Chore Monkey shifts
to buy a couch,
and figure out how
to hide those weird pipes.
The baby handprints
on the ceiling
are a little disconcerting,
but you can't see them at night.
Edgar?
Have you noticed how many more
tent cities there are lately?
Do you know any of them?
Any ex-hobo girlfriends
that I need to beat up?
Sorry, bad time for comedy?
No, it's-it's fine.
No, I'm sorry.
This is your big day.
Yeah!
I am moving into a beautiful
studio in WeHoCa.
That's L.A.'s newest,
hip neighborhood:
West of Homeless Encampment.
Hey.
I think it could be so cute.
Right? I think so.
Thanks. I mean...
it's obviously an idiotic note,
but, gun to my head,
I could show the origin
of Malcolm and Sally's
erotic coupling.
Well, if I did that,
then I'd be introducing a
soupçon of narrative Anschauung,
which would allow me to get
inside Clementine's head
when she allows the punk rock
bassist she's just met
urinate on her britches.
This is so stupid.
Okay.
How can I help you, Gretchen?
Nice magazines.
So boring, I almost died
rather than read them.
You obviously want very badly
for me to understand something.
You told me there were things
I could do, insinuating that
I could have fixed myself
any time I wanted,
and that is negating my story.
It is tired.
It is patriarchal,
and it is rape culture-y.
You are basically
a rape apologist.
I don't believe you don't
believe therapy can help.
Why don't you don't tell me more
about how I don't feel?
You really want to quit? Yes.
Okay, then.
It was nice to have met you.
You are memorable.
You know... I'm proud of you for
standing up for what you want.
Who are you, my mom?
Joke's on you.
My mom would never say that.
I know you're not my mommy.
Like, what if I started
calling you "Mommy"?
How weird would that be?
I'm gonna go in now.
Good luck, Gretchen.
Bitch.
I really like the adjustments.
Well, your asinine notes
started a thought process
of actual, usable fixes.
I had to cut the scene
in the cockpit of the plane
where Joachim Kirschner
masturbates
during his bombing
run on London,
but the section
is still highly erotic.
Did you take out the thing
with Roger spanking his nephew?
What, you let Dorothy read it?!
I thought the sample
chapters were great...
Thank you.
It's so nice to hear from fans.
Just potentially
very alienating to women.
This is literature, okay?
It shall sing its own song,
uncaring if sensibilities
are too delicate.
Anyway, it feels like
we keep forgetting
the proposal's in already.
It's done.
Okay.
Just so many descriptions
of semen on stockings.
Stockings are a sign
both of the deprivation
of the Second World War
and how much the repressed.
Kitty's slutty little legs
wanted semen on them!
What is alienating about that?
Uh, hey.
Uh... are people being
generous today?
Man, I ain't got
jack shit yet today.
Hmm, well, you know,
I was noticing that, um,
y-your sign's
a little confusing.
It looks like you need money
for dog food for yourself.
No, I-I need money
for my dog, food, and beer.
May I?
Yeah, please.
Oh, that is clearer.
Thanks, man.
- Yeah.
- How's mine?
Between you and me,
civvies feel super guilty
around us veterans,
so they've trained
themselves to ignore us.
So, um...
uh, you know may-maybe
write something funny instead.
Like what?
Well, can I get a...
like, a suggestion
of a topic from one of you guys?
You know, something light.
Cookies. Demon rape.
I heard "cookies."
Um... oh, all right.
How about, uh,
"Can only afford Hydrox,
need money for Oreos."
Because they're
discount-ass Oreos.
Yeah, that's funny.
Wr-Write that.
All right.
To think you know
how other people
should think and feel.
That is someone with something
seriously wrong with them.
That's psychopath behavior.
So what do we do
when she finally comes out?
We follow her home
and egg her house. Duh.
I had a better plan,
but apparently pig's blood is,
like, 12 bucks a quart.
Can I have some more of those?
Those are good.
Gretchen...
tell me what I may
or may not have...
maybe did by sorta-or-
not-mistake is okay.
I'm not gonna absolve you
for stabbing Paul.
What?! I didn't!
Are you crazy?
Who's watching Paul, anyway?
He's fine. I set him up
with a pile of DVDs
and yummy sandwiches.
Please.
Please go in.
Please.
Please.
Please go in.
Last one.
Please!
Yes.
Yes!
Where's the thing?
Where's the...
What are you doing?
Nothing. What? Me and my
girlfriend were just making out.
No.
Don't... no.
Okay.
I don't know. Nothing.
I was just gonna follow you home
or whatever.
Why?
To egg you.
Not necessarily!
I just wanted, you know,
to prove that you don't have
any right to judge me. Obviously.
You're right.
I don't. Good night.
Being vulnerable makes me angry!
I get that.
Being vulnerable is scary.
But most people don't even try.
Like my boyfriend. He never
wants to talk about his stuff.
He just squashes it down
and keeps it all on lock.
Okay. So what happens to people
like your boyfriend?
Oh, no... I don't know.
We'll see, I guess.
Hopefully he stops wearing
zip-up cargo shorts.
But I know locked-down shit
eventually becomes
unlocked-down.
Eventually, a person has
to start taking responsibility
for their own life.
See? There it is.
You're-you're blaming me again.
Calls 'em like I sees 'em.
What was that you were saying
about taking responsibility? Ow.
Look, I can guide,
but a patient
has to do the work themselves.
Eventually we all have to take
responsibility for our own life.
So, I'll see you next week,
maybe?
And don't stalk me again.
'Cause you guys suck at it.
I am so wet right now.
Back off, bitch.
That part you just read,
it sounds too fancy. Like, just
make the language more regular.
Tristan and Iris
are from upper-crust,
early 20th century London.
Why can't he just say
something like,
"Iris, your twat's
driving me up the wall"?
Okay. Anything else?
Shouldn't Simon
and... the redhead...
Kitty.
Yeah. Kitty.
Shouldn't they end up together
so people are happy?
But theirs is
a taboo love forbidden
by our current, ironically
more repressive society.
Okay. That's a good note.
All right.
Find a different ending,
colloquialize the language
in the first third,
find motivation
for the face-sitting,
a few other tweaks.
All right, thank you, everybody.
Here we are. Also,
there's too much sex.
♪
Edgar?
What are you doing?
So, I was thinking,
"From future.
Time machine's broken.
Need money for plutonium."
Then, in parentheses,
"FYI, the Cowboys win
the Super Bowl next year."
What do you think?
What is going on with you?
I got out of it.
But they're still here.
Plus, I have useful
comedic skills and a Sharpie.
I think that it's really nice
that you want to help them,
but how 'bout helping
your girlfriend?
Isn't that why you're here?
You don't need it,
not like they do.
You have a place to live.
Maybe we could get the rest
of my stuff upstairs,
and then we could use the boxes
to help you make some signs.
Thank you.
- Paul? Sweetheart?
- Wha...
Lindsay? Is that you?
It is.
Poor dear.
Paul?
Hmm?
I'm sorry I was gone all day.
I'm prepared to...
take responsibility for that.
Do you forgive me?
Of course I forgive y... Great!
I took responsibility,
and now it's in the past.
Whoosh! Gone.
I'll make us Red Napkin.
I love you.
Of course.
We're family.
Ow.
♪
Should we just give up?
Yeah, guess so.
I just keep thinking
about my book.
Therapist all up in my cabeza.
We're better than this!
I don't know why I'm
so scared of doing
some stupid,
Dr. Phil bullshit task.
She's the one making it seem
like this Miyagi test.
That's it. I'm gonna open
this goddamn mail.
Then I'm gonna call my agent and
tell him to pull the proposal.
Maybe this isn't even the book
that I want to write.
Who knows?
Gas bill. Easy.
Oh. Yeah, right, electricity.
I'm not paying you.
No, I don't want
your stupid magazine!
Nope.
No.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Gretchen!
My book! My book!
The proposal sold!
Ha! Suck it,
Edgar and-and Dorothy
and that cop, old lady,
and businesswoman.
I did it. Ha!
I did it!
Oh, my God, that's-that's great.
Um, have you... have you talked
to your family recently?
Mwah!
Hell no. I blocked
all their numbers
after their
disastrous visit. Why?
Nothing.
We get the offer on Monday.
God, I love being a writer!
I mean, not that I'm surprised.
This one felt so good, you know?
I sure left it all on the page
with this one.
And my faith in it
never wavered. Not really.
Nope, never wavered at all.
♪
♪ My eyes are tired
♪ And I'm a liar
♪ I wish I had grace
♪ But I can re-erase.
♪
Captioned by
Media Access Group at WGBH