CALLED IT. JUST SAYING.
Would you all still love me if I just wrote it, already? I mean, come on, the two of them playing strip poker in some shithole in Southeast Asia, drunk on the cheap shit and thinking about their respective assignments? They’re just too grown-up and sad and Charlie loves her too much for that to have been anything but the way it happened.
All right. Quick takes: I would like Jim and Maggie and Don an Lisa and Sloan to all move in together in a huge hippie commune so we can get over this and get back to whatever it was Tess was raising her hand for when Jim asked who was an expert on Sex and the City? I feel like nobody considers polyamory to resolve love quadrangles or pentagles or whatever the fuck this is.
Ways in which I am a cheap date, part the 111th: Cheered for Maggie during her “this is what an actual single woman’s life is like here” speech, because fuck Carrie Bradshaw, okay?
Charlie. I want to get his line about “pussified pussies” as the ringtone for my phone.
Now, on to what this is really all about, what I was hoping back around ep one that this story was about: You do.
All that worry about what people in the magazines said. All that crap about expectations and what Mac wanted from him and what Charlie wanted him to be and how much Reese had him convinced he was just another sucker. All of the people he respected in journalism. All the time, he kept fighting what he knew he had to do. He kept arguing with it, kept making it about Mac or their history or how he was a Republican too, goddammit, not sleeping and not eating right and drinking too much and taking the wrong drugs the wrong ways.
You can spend your entire life running away from the story you were meant to tell.
Everybody has one. This isn’t a writing thing, or even a journalism thing. You can tell a story by running a mile or making a sweater. Everyone has a story they were meant to tell, and people think the hard part is finding it. It’s not. The hard part is telling it. Shoving past that lock on your throat, opening your mouth wide, and singing to God with the best and loudest and truest voice you have, that’s the hard part, and we’re so good at shutting up.
We’re so good at sitting down, at accepting less than we want, at taking what we can get, at allowing ourselves to be bounded by any limitation mapped out by anyone passing by. We’re so fucking good at excuses for why we’re not the people we wanted to be. We pile them on ourselves like Jacob Marley’s chains, and then wonder why we feel so heavy when we walk.
And all the while, being weightless was so easy.
Get out of bed. Say what needs saying. Stop waiting for somebody else to do it. Stop waiting for the world to crush you. You are the world. You’re it. You’re all we’ve got. People have been saying that to Will since episode one, and it finally got easier to believe it than to keep denying it. You can’t outrun your story forever.
Eventually it catches up, sits you down, and says look, motherfucker, what on earth are you waiting for?