Text and fuck her date
To most looking in, Rebecca Bunch has a great life: a high powered job as an attorney in a prestigious New York law firm, great future prospects in her chosen profession, looks, brains, and money.
But she has always suffered from anxiety and depression, for which she is on a plethora of pills.
(Well, actually she’s your fiancée, but hey, in a bit it so won’t matter.) She could have caught you with one sucia, she could have caught you with two, but because you’re a totally batshit cuero who never empties his e-mail trash can, she caught you with fifty! Your girl is a bad-ass salcedense who doesn’t believe in open anything; in fact, the one thing she warned you about, that she swore she would never forgive, was . R., to Mexico (for the funeral of a friend), to New Zealand.
Maybe if you’d been engaged to a super-open-minded blanquita you could have survived it—but you’re not engaged to a super-open-minded blanquita. Over a tortured six-month period you fly together to the D. You compose a mass e-mail disowning all your sucias.
You harbored a lot of grievances against her anyway. She didn’t give good head, you hated the fuzz on her cheeks, she never waxed her pussy, she never cleaned up around the apartment, etc. Of course you go back to smoking, to drinking, you drop the therapist and the sex-addict groups and you run around with the sluts like it’s the good old days, like nothing has happened. You have trouble adjusting to it full time—to its trains that stop running at midnight, to the glumness of its inhabitants, to its startling lack of Szechuan food.
Boston, where you never wanted to live, where you feel you’ve been exiled, becomes a serious problem. His back and buttocks and right arm are so scarred up that even you, Mr. You go to the barber, shave your head for the first time in forever and cut off your beard.
You start losing your temper with friends, with students, with colleagues. You stop hitting the gym or going out for drinks; you stop shaving or washing your clothes; in fact, you stop doing almost everything. Four years earlier, Elvis had a Humvee blow up on him on a highway outside Baghdad. You have dreams where she’s talking to you like in the old days—in that sweet Spanish of the Cibao, no sign of rage, of disappointment. You stop sleeping, and some nights when you’re drunk you have a wacky impulse to open the window of your fifth-floor apartment and leap down to the street. It really is a long stretch of shit, and then, finally, the madness begins to recede. Only one pair of your jeans fits, and none of your suits. A white grandma screams at you at a traffic light, and you close your eyes until she goes away. (they went to her), your mother won’t speak to you (she liked the fiancée more than she liked you), and you’re feeling terribly guilty and terribly alone. Kisses you at the door as she leaves; it all feels too chaste to you, too lacking in promise. Two years later, you will run into her in Dudley Square but she will pretend not to recognize you, and you won’t force the issue. She brings her own pillow, one of those expensive foam ones, and her own toothbrush, and she takes it all with her on Monday morning. You send her one exploratory text, but it’s never answered. You two are pushing his daughter’s stroller around the playground near Columbia Terrace.
And you thought this guy was a good idea for what reason? A little kissing, a little feeling up, but nothing beyond that. Within an hour, she has unfriended you on Facebook.
My roommate wasn't so sure about this show but the songs alone have won her over.