You're the Worst

The five most truly free moments of a human's life

in ascending order... Leaving his parents' home,

dumping a girl hard,

deciding to eat a whole pizza,

hammocks...

and finishing a writing project.

Jimmy, did you finish

your book proposal?

Your sarcasm

is but an impotent fusillade of arrows

plinking off the Sherman tank that is my relief.

Nay, it is

a Verdi aria to my brand-new cochlear implants,

for it means 'tis true I indeed

finished my book proposal.

Also I am exceedingly drunk and cannot trust

my grip on the truth.

"Grip."

Oh...

Um...

Uh, sorry.

I just need to grab my, um...

Oh, what are those? Gimme.

Uh, they're boring.

I finally saw that psychiatrist.

He put me on these.

He's making me see this stupid therapist

for the talky-talky.

I always wondered, what exactly is the difference

between a psychiatrist and a therapist?

A psychiatrist is like,

"Here, take this pills, ho."

A therapist is all, "Oh, tell me your shit.

I couldn't make it as an actor."

I'm bored.

Let's go to the bar. Ugh.

I have to go to that stupid therapist.

Don't worry, it won't take long.

I'll go in there, she'll wave her magic wand,

and boom, Gretchen's 100.

Oh, you're moving out.

Thank God.

Make sure you leave your mattress

on the curb before you go.

And spray paint "unclean" on it,

in Spanish.

No, Dorothy found a place.

Thanks for letting me crash.

I will leave a check for all the stuff I broke.

Kidding.

Edgar, why in God's name

haven't you been opening the mail?

You made mail Gretchen's,

as you said, "one little chore."

Well, I already have one little chore.

Aw, Jimmy's dick... ya burnt.

No, he's right.

"Gretchen opens the mail" is on the chore list.

Right under "Jimmy takes out trash,

his own butt."

Fine. I'll get to it.

Never.

Damn. Big day for burns.

Ooh.

Ugh. Hey, um,

I just wanted to say thank you

for valuing my opinion. I don't.

Never have.

Worse than a dog's opinion.

What are you talking about?

Your book proposal.

First of all,

it's a really great start.

I love the world.

But I thought I'd do the 10,000-feet notes first,

and then we'd go page by page, hmm?

Hmm. How about you literally throw them in the trash?

The proposal went out already.

Well, then, why did you have me read it?

Because I wanted you to go,

"Wow, you're so smart, Jimmy.

I could never do that; I'm a stupid baby."

I understand your frustrations,

but sometimes hearing others' opinions can,

at worst, make us feel more confident in our decisions.

Wow.

For a therapist, you are a wretched listener.

I didn't ask him for notes,

because one, my proposal went out already,

though I've heard nothing,

which is potentially worrisome.

And two, I don't even know for sure that he can read,

let alone comprehend the sui generis,

unabashedly erotic, multigenerational,

literary family epic.

Gretchen, you said you wanted Jimmy here

because he can help tell the story of your depression.

Sorry, what?

Can you tell me why you're here?

No. Can you?

I thought the happy pills were supposed to fix me.

He had notes.

What notes?

The proposal is perfect.

Talk therapy along with medication

is the most effective long-term approach

to managing depression.

You mean, beating depression.

Winning depression. Oh, I like that.

That's not a thing. Winning it.

Let's start here.

Name one small thing you've been avoiding.

I already did one small thing this morning.

Aw, rough day for Jimmy's dick.

So, we done?

We can be done,

or you can do the next thing.

Self-improvement is a lifelong process.

How is this a real profession?

This feels like a scam. It's not a scam.

I calls 'em like I sees 'em.

I still don't understand

why my issues are unimportant

to you people.

I want you to make a to-do list,

but with just one thing on it at a time.

I don't have anything I need to do.

You want to fight?

Oh, are you trying to fight me?

'Cause we can go.

Can't you just assign me the one thing?

Oh, I will.

Launder your clothes.

Don't wear your shoes to bed.

Stop giving Killian food.

Titty massages for Jimmy.

That's when the girl runs her dangling titties

up and down your body.

It's quite nice.

Wash your legs.

What? I don't wash my legs.

Okay. Fine.

Mail.

There is a stack of mail

that I have been avoiding.

Why? They always want money,

or you have jury duty,

or your grandma sent you a check for your birthday,

and then you feel guilty that you never call her,

and then you can't get out of bed for a month.

Anyway... mail.

Does that count for your stupid-ass...?

Ugh, sorry.

It's all right, I'm a professional.

You can say anything you want in here.

Hmm.

Anything?

Really?

Does opening the mail count

for your one little asshole thing,

you goddamn cock?

You suck-balls dumb dick?

Sure. Fine,

jizz-magnet.

I will open one piece of mail.

Say "whore."

Whore. Whore.

I'm regretting giving you license to say anything.

Plus I do kind of want

to fight you right now. Too late.

No take-backsies.

Titty-sucking bitch.

Ow.

Lindsay, it hurts.

I know.

It'll be over soon.

Well,

it's not often I get to fill your holes, huh?

Oh, I'm falling so far behind

on my big year.

Rhett Gherkins has spotted

a paint-billed crake, Lindsay.

A paint-billed crake! I know,

but his wife has no tits

and looks like a Gila monster.

Ow.

No, don't make me laugh.

Ow!

I'm sorry.

I'm so annoying.

You're fine, bear.

I'm a terrible patient.

When I had the mumps,

Mother threatened to send me

to foster care.

Pill time, hmm?

And wash it down with this.

This is so much medicine.

Well, maybe you shouldn't have backed into my knife.

It's just like me