There are a lot of “classic” movies I haven’t seen. A disturbing amount, even. It doesn’t help that this list is continually growing, as evidenced by Empire’s 500 Greatest Movies of All Time. I felt more and more like a pop culture failure with every click through the list. So in honor of summer, and awesomeness, and doing something fun, I am creating “Shady’s Summer Cinema Challenge.” It is not 500 movies long (I have a job to go to), nor was there any rigorous criteria in making this list. I chose these movies based entirely off of what I wanted to see the most. It should be noted though, that I have not seen any of these before. So if your favorite movie didn’t make the list, it may be because I’ve seen it already. Also, I left off any movies that have a book that I intend to read.

I’m requiring that I finish all of these movies before Labor Day and, on top of these films, I must also fit in all the most highly anticipated new summer movies, as well as summer television. Also I’ve made a similar list of summer books to read. And I just started taking Tae Kwon Do. So we’ll see how much fun I’m having with this list in two months. I’ll provide updates to my progress, as well some thoughts/reviews along the way.

If you see a movie on here that you just can’t believe I haven’t seen, please shut your mouth. Your incredulity will not undo the past. These are listed in no particular order.

Some Like It Hot
The Seven Year Itch
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
Guys and Dolls
Gone with the Wind
Godfather (I & II)
Reservoir Dogs
Pulp Fiction
Ben Hur
Jailhouse Rock
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
Rebel Without a Cause
Enter the Dragon
Le Doulos
Dog Day Afternoon
The Lost Boys
To Have and Have Not
The Double Life of Véronique
Hard Days Night
Do the Right Thing
Mean Streets
Natural Born Killers
Some Like it Hot
Bugsy Malone
Citizen Kane
The Misfits
The Exorcist
Bride of Frankenstein
Dirty Harry
2001: A Space Odyssey
A Bout De Souffle
Blazing Saddles
Rear Window
Annie Hall
The Graduate
It’s a Wonderful Life
Boogie Nights
Sophie’s Choice
The Red Shoes
Cool Hand Luke
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
Animal House
Rambo: First Blood
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
Field of Dreams
Taxi Driver
Dr. Strangelove
The Good, The Bad & The Ugly
The 400 Blows
Dolce Vita
8 ½
Lawrence of Arabia
The Outlaw Josey Wales
Midnight Cowboy
National Velvet
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
Strangers on a Train
39 Steps
His Girl Friday
Woman of the Year
Bonnie and Clyde
The Way We Were
Jules Et Jim
The Seventh Seal
Fatal Attraction
All About Eve
The Gold Rush
Maltese Falcon
American Graffiti
Roman Holiday
Pandora’s Box
Funny Face
Das Boot
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
The Wicker Man (original)
Die Hard

We here at the Seven Bedroom Suite do not have what you would call a large audience. In fact, the only person I know of who regularly checks for updates is my mother (hi, Mom!!!)

Thus, I feel comfortable addressing more personal issues, since my mom already knows everything there is to know about me, right down to the fact that I am willing to sit in a 10th-avenue Dunkin Donuts for two hours straight just because my friend said he saw Andrew Garfield eating a bagel there recently.

Andrew Garfield looking like his sexy self

What I wouldn’t give to watch this man put a bagel in his mouth.

Unfortunately, I have other mental irregularities that are much more serious and much less charming than my need to stalk beautiful celebrities. It’s always been a bit difficult for me to accept, but since my teens I’ve been affected on and off by depression.

Now, one of the biggest problems I’ve had with this (apart from the fact that I seem to be stricken with every possible adverse side effect that anti-depressants have to offer) is my inability to get my family and friends to understand what exactly depression means. To my parents and sister (who are seriously the most loving, attentive, and forgiving people anyone could ever ask for, do not get me wrong), it was always my acute emotionality that was the red flag.

Yes, I was your basic teenage girl nightmare. Crying in my room, being quick to anger, screaming, throwing things, cursing like it was going out of style, writing freeform poetry in my diary about how i was alone in the middle of a storm-tossed ocean—to my comparatively placid and generally more logical family, these were signs that something was just loose in my hormone-soaked brain.

Loki is just misunderstood.


Something it took me years to understand—and something I’m not altogether sure that my loved ones have absorbed yet—is that intense emotions aren’t the problem. It’s the opposite that you really have to watch out for: the gray, static, sludgy condition of just not giving a fuck.

While you’re screaming and crying and flailing about, you’re irritating as all hell but at least you still care what’s happening to you. When you stop caring, though, the screaming stops. The crying stops. You don’t care how much or how little sleep you get. You don’t care if you get out of bed at all. You stop caring what goes into your mouth and you fail to acquire any food to balance out the diet Pepsi and loaf of bread in your fridge, which of course deprives you of every necessary nutrient ever and sends you further down into fuzzy apathy.

These things happen because you stop caring about yourself in general. You lose the ability to think ahead, even as far as tomorrow, because you can’t muster the strength to accept that anything you do has consequences. You lose the ability to tackle any responsibilities, because in your mind, you’ve already failed and there’s little point in confirming that failure. You eat too much or nothing at all, because your body even more unimportant than the rest of you.

And, worst of all, you stop caring that people care about you. It just stops being important. The more concern people show, the more you pull back, because they aren’t letting you exist in a vacuum. The hope is that if you let calls and messages go unanswered long enough, people will just forget they ever wanted anything from you.

person covering face

You can’t see me!

But there is one emotion that can penetrate the fog of social withdrawal, and that’s the hulking, snarling bastard known as guilt. Every call you send to voicemail, every email you leave un-clicked in your inbox, every text you stare at for ten minutes straight without knowing how to respond, every reminder that you’re letting everyone in your life down makes your stomach heave and your heart twist in your chest.

And then the longer you go without reaching out to people, the harder it becomes. How, you think, can I possibly answer this e-mail now, when I’ve gone for two weeks without answering it? I can’t possibly explain this. I can’t possibly deal with this. I’ll do it tomorrow. 

The guilt overwhelms any action, and the cycle continues, while your family wonders what could possibly be so damn hard about letting people know you’re still alive every once in a while. They implore you to remember that they care, that they think you’re talented and can still do great things, and they don’t understand that their belief in you is what makes you so afraid of them.

So why write any of this down? To make the whole thing seem manageable, I suppose; put a thing in writing, name it, and you have greater control over it. I don’t want to let shame and stigmas keep me from getting help anymore, and I don’t think anyone else should either. If my patient mom or my supportive dad or my amazing sister are reading this, I love you and I will do everything I can to not hurt you anymore.

If by some miracle some stranger ends up reading this (welcome to the blog, we normally write really funny posts with cute guys in them, I swear), don’t fall into this trap. Don’t ghost out because it’s easier to pretend you don’t matter. People give a shit about you, whether you like it or not, and it’s time to start living up to that no matter how scary and impossible it is.

The Doctor believes in you, and he is very rarely wrong.

Last night, I returned from an extended weekend trip home to Orlando, Florida. I’d been waiting to get back to Florida since I left the day after Christmas heading back to New York City, and the days passed exactly as I had hoped they would; slow, lazy, soaked in the heat and humidity that has become a character of its own when I think back on my adolescence. There wasn’t a moment I was standing beside my mother when I wasn’t hugging her, and I spent a lot of time being a complete creeper and just staring at my family so that I could remember what this felt like, to save up the love like a bear about to hibernate through a long, lonely winter. It may be exclusionary but I saw the people there who truly matter, my immediate family, my two surrogate brothers, and my dear friend Ian, my love for whom I’m oddly incapable of expressing other than to say that it’s real, and that he knows how to be a friend better than anyone I know.

I spent my last day sitting at the dining room table with my siblings and Ian, eating, cracking jokes and telling stories with the kind of ease and familiarity I know I’m blessed to have. When I got into the car so my parents could drive me to the airport, I had no desire to cry. I had spent time with my family and felt all the better for it, recharged and ready to take on a city that is so persistent in its attack on my being.  But before I knew it, I was sobbing in the backseat. My dad held my hand from the driver’s seat and I had half a mind to fling myself from the car, into the Florida heat and rain and just disappear with the humidity.

The last of my fortune ran out in Florida; I was upgraded to a business class seat and spent my flight sitting cross-legged and staring out the window. When I landed in New York City I was welcomed with the news that I would have to wait an hour for a van to pick me. This turned to two hours. I felt again the desire to disappear, but it was held off by the thought that, here, no one would hesitate to forget me. I felt the desire to cry at my misfortune, but it seems my body has decided that since my breakdown at work, New York doesn’t deserve my tears.

I was dropped off at Grand Central and took two trains home to my quiet neighborhood in South Slope. It was 12:53AM. I lugged my suitcase up the three flights of stairs to the space I share with our beloved Pumpkin. I realize now that I didn’t hug her, I just asked her why the dishes that were there before I left were still on the table. We talked for two hours, about what I can’t even remember. Probably Tom Hiddleston. Whiskey. Grocery shopping. Newsies. As I lay there in bed afterward, unable to sleep, staring up at my ceiling while the sun came up, it occurred to me that if not for Julie, I would have spent the night weighing the pros and cons of quitting my job and going back to Orlando.

To Julie: You are an amazing roommate. You are exceptionally talented, and make every day of my life in New York City better. You’re kind and patient and your facial expressions are priceless. You put up with the fact that I haven’t done much to clean the bathroom. You’re an enabler to my sweet tooth and I refuse to regret eating an entire pint of Talenti Caramel Cookie Crunch or Ben & Jerry’s Red Velvet because HOLY SHIT THEY ARE GOOD. I love that you’re a bizarre night owl because for some reason it makes me feel safe. You accept me for whom I am and believe I can be who I want to be, all the while choosing to overlook the worse parts of me for the better. You listen to me complain about a job that I think you might murder me to have. You believe in a world where we don’t have to compromise to live happy lives, and while I think it’s a pipe dream, I need you to keep believing that because it’s people who believe that way who make the world a better place.

Life gets rough. We take jobs we hate to avoid feeling worthless. We quit jobs we hate to avoid feeling useless. We put ourselves on the line and attempt to take the pitfalls in stride no matter how much they tear us up on the inside. I can’t tell you how much it means to know that after everything has fallen apart and life has shown us how little we matter, I can come home and spend two hours discussing how Tom Hiddleston needs to just stop it already and Andrew Garfield needs to just show himself already because he’s definitely been within a three block radius of us  at some point and is obviously just consciously avoiding us now and how can these bitches not eat hamburgers because what the hell is wrong with them they are delicious. When I’m with you I feel the same quiet sense of accomplishment that I felt sitting around that dining room table on my last day in Florida. Like I’ve acquired something worth envying. I feel like I’m home. I love you.

Btw, I bought your lunch for you. You’re such an idiot.

Today, on a very special edition of EffThatGuy: Tom Motherfucking Hiddleston.

Tom Hiddleston smiling

Tom Hiddleston being casually sexy

Tom Hiddleston as Loki

I mean, if he asked me to kneel, I’d probably do it. Sorry, Captain America.

Of course, The Avengers was the greatest movie of all time ever. It was well-written and well-directed and lovely to look at, and it had a lot of other positive elements, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that much of my enjoyment came from the fact that EVERYONE IN THAT MOVIE IS SO BEAUTIFUL AND AMAZING OH MY GOD.

While the Chrisses (Hemsworth and Evans), R.D.J. and Jeremy Renner are all incomparable in their own ways, the girls and I have been living and breathing Hiddleston-love. Really, there has never been anyone not named Ryan Gosling who has unified us so intensely on the issue of bang-ability. In honor of our mutual enthusiasm, I have decided to take this installment to the next level and extoll Tom’s virtues not through prose, but through song.

I could spend a long time explaining and extolling the value of this song and video, but just suffice it to say that it’s about damn time someone told everyone to calm the fuck down about interracial dating. Now go get your summer swirl on.

I don’t even know how to begin this. Ultimately it will end up sounding like another jaded, self-aware millennial complaining about their situation. It will share the same cynical, yet hopeful, yet somehow unabashedly enthusiastic tone seen in countless blogs and Facebook posts. It will contain references to things that were maybe once niche and would make me seem alternative, worldly or well-educated, but are now just common knowledge thanks to the internet. I have no revelations to share. I don’t think my current situation is interesting enough to share with anyone but the people who love me enough to listen. Real life love, not “omg, love her tumblr” love. I’m not able to put the blandness of my situation into an art form that others can relate to. I’m not wonderfully beautiful nor do I possess any kind of ‘it’ factor or quality that demands that I be paid attention to.

Some people have told me that I have the talent to create something that could change the world, but I don’t see what they’re talking about, and our ‘participation trophy’ society has me thinking that they’ve got me gassed up, Willie Loman style. I’m just a normal girl. I’m not exceptional in any way. Somehow, that’s not allowed. If I share this sentiment with someone, they go on a long tangent to convince me that I possess greatness – that I’ll find my calling and suddenly be reeling in a world of fulfilled potential and recognition and being soul mates with a quirky guy that everyone says is just so perfect for me.

Because we think that everyone who has potential lives to see that potential fulfilled. But what if I’ve missed the boat? What if, even at just 22 years old, I’ve missed my opportunity to live up to something? Folks keep reminding me how young I am, as though there aren’t people who peak in high school or college; as though there aren’t people whose peaks are hardly peaks at all, but small hills in comparison to what so many of us expect. Or whose lives are more cliffs than hills – nothing particular to note until it suddenly drops off. I’m not somehow exempt from this because I try or something. My being mildly attractive and above average intelligence doesn’t guarantee a greener pasture any more than the amount of work my parents put into trying to get me off the ground. Hard work ≠ big time pay off. It’s bleak, I know, but it’s the kind of thing I think I have to acknowledge to even stand a chance at being happy with the life I’m most likely to end up leading.

Which brings me to my real question: Am I allowed to be sad? Like I said, I’m 22, mildly attractive, above average intelligence. I have a job working in New York City with a livable salary. I know at least 15 people personally who would maim someone to get my opportunity. In an economy where no one is getting hired, I found a job. I found a good job, in the field I studied in school, with full benefits and after hours perks and the possibility for upward mobility. You don’t even have to delve in to the under privileged youth of America or the starving children in Africa to point out that I’m an ungrateful shithead. I’m over here ruefully contemplating the validity of my existentialism like that bitch in Eat Pray Love while I should just be grateful I had the means to travel to three separate countries just to “find myself.” I should just shut the hell up, sit at my desk and do the work requested of me until I learn to appreciate what I’m given. Who am I kidding? I have health insurance!

How much does it really matter that I think the work I do is pointless and I spend every evening psyching myself out for the next morning? That New York City as a whole is so overwhelming that I never really recover from it? Sure there’s a lot of great stuff here, and I know that if I left I would miss it, but here in the middle of it all I can see is the storm. All I can see are the people who didn’t miss their opportunity, who are still working towards some great finish, who will fall in love one day, working dutifully to their end while I get carried out to sea. It’s as though one day everything will settle and somehow everyone will have ended up exactly where they should be and I’ll be standing right where I was, all alone, proverbial dick in hand, and all anyone will be able to say is how I had so much potential. I won’t have any great stories to keep me company in my old age, no artifacts of a better time; just the notion that maybe, if I’d paid better attention, or wanted it more, I could have had everything I ever wanted, and I only have myself to blame.

I’ve been on the verge of tears for over a month now – every time I’m in a room alone or riding the subway home I have a moment where I think it will all come rushing out, a great wave of cathartic tears somehow washing everything away the way it used to – but it never comes. Even if I were to cry, it wouldn’t fix anything.

It’s not as though I know what I want. I don’t have a dream that I could set out on the road towards, I’m just decidedly unhappy with where my life is now. The little engine that could knew exactly what he was working towards, so he knew to put everything into it. I don’t know where to put my attention because I don’t know what I want. Every time I think of the Little Engine that Could, I think of a girl I knew in elementary school. She would write ‘I think I can, I think I can” at the top of all of her test papers. I don’t think I ever saw her get higher than a C.

Part of me thinks I should just commit and throw myself into this career because at least it’s a direction. At least this way I’ll know to commit and make the most of something, instead of possibly wandering through life never certain of anything. But another part of me remembers that I promised myself I would start making decisions, not just letting life unfold in front of me, and that I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I just resigned myself to this life.

I’m not sure if I’m allowed to be saddened by my life, but of course that doesn’t matter. I am sad. I wake up and I wonder how each day will make itself worth living through. Other days I wake up and can’t remember anything I was ever excited about. I keep waiting for life to surprise me with a divergent road, so I can make the decision to take the one less traveled by. But I’ve been so focused on looking for the road less traveled by that I’ve forgotten that the roads least traveled never really become roads at all. There may be a bit of dead grass, or a bent branch somewhere in the wilderness, but the roads least traveled remain overgrown, wild, precarious and fearful. Completely indiscernible from the jungle that surrounds them. There is no way to take one of these roads with any kind of certainty. There is nothing there to guide you through except the stories of those who have successfully – and unsuccessfully – gone before. This notion taunts me, reminding me that at any moment, if I only pay attention and want it bad enough, I can have everything I ever wanted. And that if I don’t go for it, I only have myself to blame.

He looks how I felt. These two need to get a room already

So, here’s the thing about Heart of Darkness – the first time I read it, I didn’t like it, partially because The Poisonwood Bible seemed so much cooler and partially because I had not yet developed my current obsession with beautiful language. Thank God the writers of this week’s episode were better English students than I was, whipping up a whole list of magical lines that explore “the horror, the horror” of giving in and/or getting exactly what you want. In honor of their genius, today’s recap will be broken up into the lines that best sum up each story of the night (bet you can’t pick just one). Here are the four paths to everyone’s “Heart of Darkness”:

Rebecca (and a little bit of Matt):  “But I haven’t lived at all”

Full disclosure, I’m gonna be doing a lot of squealing over cute boys in this recap, because they all just got haircuts/finally came back from the wilderness/ have reverted to season-one levels of gloriously unfettered hotness. Matt falls into the final category (Henleys are the gifts that keep on giving), adorably aiding Caroline’s escape from dance-planning by siding with the “wrong” blonde before driving said blonde home. The scene in front of The Mikaelson Mansion was Dawson’s Creek- level cute even thought everyone involved knows Matt has ulterior motives. (Note:  Yay for the Decade Dance’s Twenties theme – much better than Seventies – but the gang needs to STOP GOING TO THEM. No one has any fun, and they’realways there to kill someone). Many fans are probably tired of Rebecca’s “poor little immortal girl” shtick by this point, but the fact that she refuses to let go of opportunities to be a high-school mean girl or blush over boys belies a humanity that’s vital to understanding the Originals as people and not just the Big Bads (well, except for Kol – his angst-less take on sadism is sorta a breath of fresh air in the midst of the constant sea of emotions). TVD is first and foremost a show about loss, and of the surviving Mikaelson siblings Rebecca is the least comfortable with her role – she keeps attempting to define herself as something more than the ice-princess-only-sister, but she struggles because there is nothing left for her to become. She can never be the sister or daughter she was, a fact that underscores her scene with Esther, who forced her to trade normalcy for life and now wants to force an impossible reversal ( like an anti-Sheriff Forbes, if you’ll accept that their mother issues and Klaus/Stefan/Tyler/Matt entanglements speak to a serious symmetry between the blondes). The fact that Esther would rather possess Rebecca than fade away only epitomizes this – her daughter literally has not been in control of her body for a thousand years.

Stefan and Alaric: “He’s not you, he’s the darkest parts of you. Parts we all have.”

This is not a character combination we see very often, but that was sort of the point – after the year Stefan’s had, and the month Alaric just experienced, nobody else understands one like the other. Both have been sorting out their issues, but only really discussed them with Damon, who’s already learned to embrace his demons. In fact, the elder Salvatore’s absence gave Stefan space to illustrate 1) The brothers understand one another – Stefan can’t deal with the ambiguity of Elena’s emotions, and Damon can’t torture his best friend, so they switch crises; and 2) Group therapy is the best kind. Without Damon there to tell them they’re both going to be fine, Stefan and Alaric can drunkenly commiserate over exactly how much the path to control/sobriety/mental stability absolutely sucks. Understanding that their dark sides get results – the location of the stake is only obtained through the use of violence bringing out Alaric’s Mr. “What drives him is me” – is the first step, something Stefan communicates brilliantly with his dressing-down of Klaus: “… now that I’ve accepted it, it can’t control me. And neither can you… Unless you’re gonna stake me, why don’t you get the hell outta my house?” Everybody has been trapped/tortured in that basement, but The Salvatore boarding house is a place of healing tonight. Demons that dare enter get slayed.

Tyler and Caroline: “How much did I miss?”

First off, TYLER Y’ALL. Like, he and Caroline did it in the Lockwood slave cellar and I couldn’t bring myself to give a care about the kinkiness of that, such was my joy at their reunion. That said, the fact that this awful place is the site of most of their bonding moments says almost as much about their relationship as the question above. Much of Caroline’s story since she turned has been about Tyler – protecting him, rejecting him, resisting him, accepting him – and so we perceive him through her eyes. When he leaves, we only experience the waiting for his return, as opposed to witnessing him forcing a hundred transformations in the Appalachians, and he always says he’s leaving for her more than himself, though both are relevant. So when he’s brought up to speed on the intended demise of his bloodline, it’s intriguing to experience the news from his perspective, as the realization dawns that he is one too many degrees removed from Elena to be, in Damon’s eyes, worth keeping alive. The same goes for his reaction to Klaus’ drawing in Caroline’s room. Yes, we know that it was Klaus who reminded her of the benefits of immortality when the men in her life made her want to die. We know that she has the ability to appreciate the Hybrid’s attention while simultaneously rejecting everything he stands for, that she exploited his affection multiple times at great risk for the sake of her friends and her relationship. Tyler, however, only knows that once upon a time he couldn’t beat out her first love, his best friend (a fact the writers acknowledge with a beautiful beat between Caroline and Matt after the fake fight), and now he might be vying for her affections against the First Hybrid, with whom he may unwillingly possess an even more durable and insurmountable bond. Yes, Caroline missed him. No, she doesn’t know why she kept the picture. Both are the truth. But their relationship was fraught with miscommunication before the Mikaelsons came to town and overturned everyone’s dynamic, so the night of his return from changing into an animal in the freaking mountains is not a ripe time to enter emotional gray areas. Tyler is not equipped to process how much he may have missed.

Damon and Elena (and Jeremy, and Rose): “He could be the best or the worst thing for her”

I love TVD road trips, in part because a speeding car provides the perfect opportunity for spilling guts in a private location, and also because when people decide to go on the journey they are fully aware of that fact. The forced isolation is a choice, albeit often one of necessity, and to get in the car is to surrender to the process. Elena says Stefan thought she should go to Denver with Damon, but Damon rightly accuses her of knowing it too – a fair point considering their history. Goodness knows she isn’t going for Jeremy, a fact that Jeremy himself calls her out on (“What, so you can make out some more?”). Even Rose can tell, throwing shade on the situation from beyond the grave. I say all of this to highlight the fact that all season Elena’s been under the impression that the people she interacts with are unaware of her motivations, and this episode attempted to declare once and for all that she is hella obvious and needs to start considering the true ramifications of her actions. Everybody can see her flailing, and they’re getting tired of waiting for her to figure that out.

That said, the whole Denver/middle-of-“no-tel” sequence was WOW. Kol , in his brilliant viciousness, kneecapped Damon with an aluminum baseball bat because Damon as a rule must be taken out at the knees once a road trip. Jeremy and Damon’s banter is proof that their non-brother-in-law-pseudo-bromance still thrives beneath the surface. Death agrees with Ghost Rose, who was more relevant as a sassy angel over everyone’s shoulder (and Shipper On Deck) than she ever was alive. “Scary Mary” was hilarious as a concept even if we were too late to see her in action. Damon’s recollection/confession about his deceased friend’s final moments was a piece of Ian Somerhalder’s beautifully subtle acting throughout the whole series of scenes, capped perfectly with “It wasn’t about you” (We love her, but sometimes the doppleganger needs to be reminded). The “I see you seeing me seeing you eye-sexing me” silent encounter almost topped the epic ATTMO that followed, except that my mind-meld with the music supervisors chose this moment to complete and Florence + the Machine’s “Never Let Me Go” started blaring (as it damn well should) and I started screaming and circling my living room as a result. The B.S. call /emotional beatdown Damon laid down on Elena supplied the title of this recap, and can only be summed up as H.Y.F.R., because Elena needs a daily reminder that the people around her are not the same people she started the series with; that evolution is an inevitable part of life, one she is not exempt from. She must make choices and not be afraid if they actually move her forward instead of back.

My only question is, are they driving Jeremy back to Denver, or bringing him home with them? Since he and Kol became “friends” there it seems unsafe for him now, but then doesn’t he need to transfer schools and pack up his room and retrieve his dog? (We’re praying Kol didn’t use it as a demonstration of his crazy). What does this mean for Bonnie, absent this episode but most likely bringing Not-Related Jaime to The Dance next week? Making her choose between Ri’chard and McQueen is just cruel, show.

Next week: 3×20, “Do Not Go Gentle” as in “into the good night”. Who’s going to rage, rage against the dying of the light?

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