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,
i.e.: 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 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...
Ahhhhh!
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.
sync by spectrix www.addic7ed.com