I've never played The Game. Not once. I've flipped Monopoly boards over out of no-trade rage, used physical force to defeat fellow children in Slamwich, abandoned Risk, peeked at other peoples' hands while playing Spoons and almost vomited from motion sickness during a volatile round of the app version of Life on a two-hour drive back to New York. But when it comes to the type of pre-determined judgement, mental skill and patience required to let a few hours pass between text messages with the bag of flesh you can't stop thinking about? Can't fuckin' do it.
I've always been the type of girl who's less interested in a guy and more...obsessed, obsessed would definitely be the word. My all-or-nothing personality flows through aspects of life big (tuition paid in full for crafty classes abandoned two weeks in) and small (exercise daily or never at all), but I can't help it. I'm a predisposed addict; I want all of it right now, or I want to ignore its sheer existence. And while a natural born fear of losing control has thankfully and miraculously kept me off the pipe, it's the mentality that my world revolves around the person whose basket contains all my proverbial eggs that makes my natural disposition to immediately communicate back part of my low-level irritating charm.
Being this type of person who doesn't fuck around when it comes to conquering a man I adore, quickly making him live within the same rectangle-shaped space as me is kind of the reason why I found Sunday's episode of Girls so disenchanting. How, and why, and more important how could Hannah not love Adam back?
I cannot begin to comprehend what it's like to want someone that badly for so long and not be capable of reciprocating it in the slightest when they come back around with time to spare. (It was a matter of days before he openly liked her back during her infatuation period, not months. Days.) Not to get all Dayenu on you or anything, but holy fucking Christ, let's peel these layers of deficiency back: If you're on someone's jock for a full calendar season, then you finally get them to like you back, then they're hit by a car and sent to the hospital while professing they love you, then they're saddled with a plaster-clad extremity after being hit by a car and THEN, when they send you a painfully adorable ditty trying to get you back after they were hit while professing they love you, YOU TAKE THEM BACK.
Now, I'm not saying to settle. But sometimes — actually, no, most of the time — the grass isn't actually greener on the other side. Who knows, maybe it's just that your eye prescription has changed from staring at the computer for too long, and the long shards of fresh, kelly-colored chlorophyll on the other side just appear to be greener despite the lawn actually being in terrible condition and riddled with spiders and mice and maggots. The end goal isn't the person you think you "should" be with (hello, Sandy) instead of the one directly in front of you; the end goal is always happiness. Always. Personally, I may not be with a man who owns a cheese sauce emporium and happens to moonlight as a comic named Louis C.K., but I'm happy. And if you're happy, then congratulations: you've officially topped out.
I keep watching this borderline crap pile (sorry, Season 2's kind of a shit popsicle) and waiting for Hannah to have that epiphany, expecting her to look into those bulbous eyes and just give in, missing his lanky ghost arms around her, but it never happens. (See: last week's anger rage, since with nothing has changed.) Knowing what you've got when he's right in front of you and asking for a glass of milk is so important, because chasing after your lost love years after its gone is one of the most embarrassing things you can do to yourself. It's like attempting to revive a pair of gauchos from the back of your childhood bedroom closet with a pair of heels to "make them work again." It's too late, you missed your chance, and it's never, ever, ever, good god ever gonna happen again. Those stretchy bags of cheap fabric instantly giving you a fat apple vagina and highlighting your cellulite in such a way that it's practically performing in its own matinee of Pippen? That's the unflattering equivalent of you, publically groveling for something that's long gone. And dayum, it is not a good look.
Whatever happens, just hold this lesson tight: don't treat the Chihuahua you were loaned eight minutes ago better than the bleeding heart of a man who loves you for everything you are, puppy-in-boob action notwithstanding. Or, in Chicken Soup terms (because holy cow, how much do you miss crying before going to sleep?!), when a man asks for a glass of milk, you pour it. And when he's a kind, loving guy who just wants to put on your weird masks and giggle, you make him yours. And, ya know, maybe don't call the cops from being an overly confident brazen adult-child brainwashed by too many late-night episodes of SVU.
Girls Season 2, Episode 2: I Get Ideas
Best Line: Three-way-tie between "I've always marched to the beat of my own drummer, ever since I cut my camp shirt into a halter top", "Just read the newspaper. Just read one newspaper" and my boyfriend going "I HATE THIS SHOW SO MUCH" when Jessa and Thomas John unveil their tiger tattoos.
Best Mate: Thomas John, obviously. BUCKET O' PUPPIES. Valentine's Day is comin' up, fuckers. Make your woman proud.
What Kind Of A-Hole Was Hannah This Week?: The Awful Young Democrat variety. The whole internet-educated, playtime colorblind mentality paired with a holier-than-thou attitude about important issues despite getting her world news solely through the spectrum of The Daily Show is a 7 layer dip of infuriating.
I Give This... 1 out of 4 bathtub snax. It's becoming an inverse of itself where some things still stick — Allison Williams' character depth, Shoshanna's quick-chatter, Andrew Rannells saying anything aloud — but some of the jokes feel eye-rolly even to me, and the things Hannah has done lately feel out of character.
Earlier Ladyshow Nonsense:
Girls Season 2, Episode 1: On Being Self Aware
Girls Season 1 Finale: Everyone's A Dumb Whore
Girls Season 1: Opening My Big Fat Lady Mouth