I am in an abusive relationship.
It’s with Girls.
On paper, Girls and I are perfect for each other. People whose opinions I trust rave about it. It wins awards. I worship everything else that Judd Apatow has touched. I constantly find myself in awkward situations. And, just like the characters, I spent my 20s scraping by in Brooklyn.
Girls should be my jam.
But, its not.
If we’re being truthy, I can barely stand to watch it. The characters alternately infuriate and repulse me. I want to smack all four of them upside the head, show them what a flattering outfit looks like, teach them some basic manners and courtesy, and then put them on a train out of my beloved Brooklyn because, even more than the mustachioed mandolin-toting hipsters who flooded my hood and drove up my rent, they do not deserve to be there. And…
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