Girls: a not-quite review of the HBO series, not the entire gender.

After watching the HBO series Girls for the first time I finally understand the concept of “hate-watching.” 

No, seriously: some props to Lena Dunham for creating the most unlikable group of characters ever compiled in the history of scripted television. It is, at times, cringing-ly unwatchable and yet: did I sit through 4 episodes back-to-back last night? I sure did.

I had every intention of laying on the couch quietly with the my eyes closed to thwart off an incoming headache, with whatever-was-on-TV as background noise. 

First, I turned the television up louder so I could hear it.

Then, I put my glasses on and rolled over on my side.

Then, I sat up.

Then, I forgot I had a headache.

Then, two episodes in, I realized I didn’t even have a headache anymore.

Then, four episodes in, I realized I could have actually watched more.

No, seriously you guys: every. single. character (that I’ve seen) is a miserable pool of neurotic, mental-diarrhea. I was holding out hope for one of them, but then he did something really douche-y and I was all like “Nope. I’m out. They all suck.”

Except I’m not out. I’m totally in. Sucked in. Somehow, I need to know what happens to these poor schmucks. I don’t think it’s because I care about them – because I’m not sure that I do. I’m just simply fascinated by them. Each seems to alternate between cartoonish self-consciousness and too-real-it-makes-me-squirm psychopathy, with weirdly compelling results. I need to know where this shit show stops next. This is something I’ve never experienced before in television, and I honestly don’t know how I feel about that. 

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