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While the rest of my flist rails against more important things, like misogynistic Superbowl adverts, I'm going to rail about this.
Dear Numb3rs,
David is not from the South Bronx. He did not grow up there. He grew up in South Central L.A., Compton, in fact, as per your your own fucking canon. It's not as if David has never mentioned his upbringing before; he has bludgeoned us about the head with it every time the story featured gangs or inner-city kids in peril. To retcon his well-established background with three episodes to go in the series serves no purpose whatsoever, other than to highlight your lack of give a shit. Let the series go out with some dignity, for God's sake, and stop behaving like high-school seniors on the last day of class. Pay attention. One of your hallmarks was solid continuity and attention to detail, and there's no reason to falter now.
I did it again. Only I could set out to write a romance and end up with a twenty-page interlude on how Richard Z. Kruspe got interested in rock and fled to the West through Hungary. In the middle of a conversation. ~headdesk~ Why can't I write a straight romance? Why does my febrile little brain stubbornly insist on niffling through everyone's psychological underpinnings before I get get to the ficky ficky and the declarations of devotion? Is it because I regard sex as a psychological act facilitated by a fleshy, physiological apparatus? Why are most, if not all, my stories verbal Russian nesting dolls?
Dear Numb3rs,
David is not from the South Bronx. He did not grow up there. He grew up in South Central L.A., Compton, in fact, as per your your own fucking canon. It's not as if David has never mentioned his upbringing before; he has bludgeoned us about the head with it every time the story featured gangs or inner-city kids in peril. To retcon his well-established background with three episodes to go in the series serves no purpose whatsoever, other than to highlight your lack of give a shit. Let the series go out with some dignity, for God's sake, and stop behaving like high-school seniors on the last day of class. Pay attention. One of your hallmarks was solid continuity and attention to detail, and there's no reason to falter now.
I did it again. Only I could set out to write a romance and end up with a twenty-page interlude on how Richard Z. Kruspe got interested in rock and fled to the West through Hungary. In the middle of a conversation. ~headdesk~ Why can't I write a straight romance? Why does my febrile little brain stubbornly insist on niffling through everyone's psychological underpinnings before I get get to the ficky ficky and the declarations of devotion? Is it because I regard sex as a psychological act facilitated by a fleshy, physiological apparatus? Why are most, if not all, my stories verbal Russian nesting dolls?