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…