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Anyway, there's dancing, and shirt exchanging, and line after line on top of a toilet seat. Gross! But, I guess, real. And Elijah confesses to having fucked Marnie, which, predictably, freaks Hannah out. Even after Elijah assures Hannah that he "didn't even cum in her" and that he "lost his boner" and that Marnie is "very ribby", Hannah is still upset enough to track Marnie down. On their way to find Marnie, Hannah and Elijah run into Laird in Metro Drugs where Elijah asks, "Are we 'In the Night Kitchen'?" Laird has been following Hannah all night. Because? He wants to protect her, "like the mom in 'Extremely Close and Extremely Loud'." Sweet? No. Not really.
But they all head over to see Marnie anyway, interrupting her conversation with Booth about the differences between growing up in the 80s versus the 90s. The 90s were "suburban" and therefore not as real. Anyway, because it is "a Wednesday night" and Hannah is "alive" she decides to confront Marnie and make Marnie feel like a horrible person—which Marnie is, but not for this reason—and it's just kind of miserable. Also, Hannah informs Elijah that he can't live with her anymore, because he "ruined her article, ruined her night, ruined her relationship with Marnie, and ruined her relationship with cocaine, which could have been her favorite drug." Which, if Hannah can't get a good article out of this? Then she's a worse writer than I would have otherwise thought. Hannah storms out with Laird and goes back to her building, where she decides to fuck him so that she can write about it. And, really, Hannah's made stupider decisions in just this episode alone, but still. This episode was probably my least favorite of the series. It felt like every opportunity to parody something genuinely ridiculous—like what coked-up people are like and how absurd many New York artists are—was blown. The situations weren't inherently absurd, but they were rendered unrecognizable because they were handled with zero nuance and lost total touch with reality, which sucks because coke talk and the New York art scene are so perfectly exploitable. Instead, this was predictable and banal. And, when making art world references, try a little bit harder than Damien Hirst. Everybody's heard of Damien Hirst, but nobody cares.
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