I'm sitting in my cubicle right now and my butt is legitimately sore from clenching it so much during the True Detective Season Two finale last night. Every five minutes my butt would involuntarily tighten and my knuckles would be white and my boyfriend would get pissed because I kept flailing my arms out and hitting him.
But it's about damn time that show had some dramatic tension. After basically wasting six hours of our lives waiting for a compelling story line in True Detective, the season finale delivered. By killing basically every single fucking person on the show.
But first, sex. Colin Farrell and Rachel McAdams FINALLY got it on, but what about that really shitty post-coital interaction where they basically spelled out every horrible thing that's ever happened to them? What the fuck is that? And then they find out Tim Riggins is dead, and RIP romance.
The romance continued to die as Vince Vaughn sent his wife off to Venezuela before enacting a soul-crushing suicide mission. The only romance Vince Vaughn should realistically attain is sleeping with women at weddings and quoting the Wedding Crashers rulebook. It's textbook.
After these loving moments, the episode turned into an hour of pure torture. Honestly, going to SoulCycle would have been a less painful way to spend that time.
Without going into details about the deaths, literally every main character died, except for Ani Bezzerides and Vince Vaughn's wife, Jordan, who ended up fugitives on the run in a shitty hotel in Venezuela.
Of fucking course Ani got knocked up from the one time she slept with Ray Velcoro (aka sexy Irishman Colin Farrell) and now is bringing that baby along on her fugitive lifestyle. SO cliche. And the reason Colin Farrell died is because he stopped one last time to see his kid because he's so fucking predictable. And the paternity test says the kid was his. Because life sucks. Literally knocked over my wine glass in anger.
Please, someone email email@example.com and tell him his father loves him.
I still don't really know why/how Vince Vaughn died. Because someone from a Mexican gang asked for his suit and he punched him in the face and got stabbed.
Like, are you fucking kidding me? You decided to die over a Men's Warehouse suit?
And then Vince Vaughn went through a weird rendition of the Five People You Meet in Hell and saw his piece of shit father and old 90s rival gang members before falling to his death in the middle of a desert alone.
The worst part in all of this is that these deaths didn't even matter. No one changed the world, the government is still corrupt, and everyone's lives are shit.
And if their lives don't suck, then they're dead.
And now I don't know if I want to say “fuck you, True Detective” or just go take a #170 nap. Emotional trauma is real.