Poor Greg Drowning

So, there I am.

Down on one knee in the sand,

almost exactly where I had been seven years before,

kissing her.

Waves crashing in the background,

the sun glistening into her strikingly beautiful green eyes.

And I'm holding up a diamond ring,

asking her to marry me,

which I'd saved up for

for three fucking years, by the way.

After 15 minutes of pouring my soul out,

telling her how wonderful she is

and how wonderful our lives now make sense

and how... and how... and how... and how... and how our future is

nothing but a big shiny, bright spot.

I mean, what would you say?

You'd say something?

But, no, no, no. Nothing.

Like, nothing at all.

Like, just crickets.

And then tears.

Tears streaming down my face,

but these are not tears of joy.

No.

These are not tears of, "Oh, my God,

now our lives make sense together

and we're gonna have four kids

and we're gonna live in Seattle."

No.

These are, "How about I open up your chest,

I take a big fat fucking shit inside of it,

I zip it up, I wrap you up in duct tape,

I put you on a chair, I put a noose around your neck,

and then I kick the chair out from underneath you" tears.

Because, you know what? She goes, "I met someone new.

I met someone with a little more stability," she said.

She goes, "How are you gonna take care of me

when I'm pregnant?"

Um, what was the rent for the room again?

Oh, right. Right, right.

So, basically it's a thousand bucks, flat out.

Okay, uh, that's actually not too bad.

I'm gonna pass.

Great.

Okay.

Great.

I'm just gonna...

I'm gonna go.

Oh, of course you're gonna pass,

you fucking soul-sucking-Shiva of a whore!

Why don't you just go ahead and nut tap

poor ol' Greg's testes and rip out his uvula

while you're at it!

Get in line, you fucking blonde cracker!

Hey, Ms. Dalton.

It's good to see you this morning.

Hey!

Love that new landscape!

Killer perennials.

Once upon a time, a poor aspiring writer

named Greg was drowning in heartbreak.

The love of his life, Ashley,

had just fucked the shit

out of their couples therapist, Dr. Wilbon.

This begins the sad, sad tale

of a hopeless love addict trying to find love once again.

And along the way, a roommate, too.

Greg, it's your sister. Wake up.

Oh.

There it is.

Argh.

Oh, God, it's you.

Mom said you still can't find a roommate?

Yeah, not yet.

I'm being selective.

Yeah.

Oh, hey, by the way, Greg.

Dan and I are having a little dinner party on Saturday

and I really think you should come.

Mm, I don't know.

I'm kind of on the fence about human beings right now.

Oh, speaking of human beings,

please do not miss your 3:00 p.m. workout

with my trainer, Hector.

Oh, fuck me real hard.

Jules, I thought we rescheduled that.

No, we didn't reschedule that. You need the endorphins.

Oh, God damn it, Jules. No, I don't need endorphins.

I'm fine.

You're a mess, Greg.

And you should stop... just stop drinking that,

unless you want to puke your nuts out at your session.

Please.

Pfft, how hard could this Hector guy's workout possibly be?

I want 20 push-ups, soldier.

Oh, my God. Soldier?

Think I am... think I'm...

Oh, my God, I think I'm gonna have a heart attack.

Get off my squad.

I'm sorry?

Get off my squadron right now.

Your squad?

I don't want no pansy-ass

mama's boy on my squadron.

Get the fuck up.

I'm not a love addict.

No.

It's totally normal to get emotional

during a romantic comedy.

Mom, how am I supposed to get a job and a roommate

and work on my writing?

Hmm? You think Dalton Trumbo was posting craigslist ads

and driving around in an Uber on the weekends?

No.

Yes, writing is going great.

All right, say hello to Mary Jane for me.

Love you, too.

Bye.

I'm sleeping with our couples therapist.

Oh, my God.

Oh.

Oh, my God.

Fuck.

Fuck you, Dr. Wilbon!

So, you had the same recurring dream last night.

Yes. Doctors are the worst.

How did that dream make you feel when you woke up?

Oh, pfft, just wonderful.

I mean, I love the fact that the love of my life

is fucking our couples therapist.

You're still in anger phase.

That will subside.

And, Greg, you know this dream isn't real.

Well, yeah, but her fucking Dr. Wilbon is very real.

True, that does suck very badly.

Is that supposed to be helpful?

Moving right along.

How about you, Doc? Have you ever fucked a client?

I would never sleep with a beautiful, sensual,

buttery thighs, breasts that could dent a man's chest,

vivacious valley, dimple on her ass...

Doc?

Yes? Oh, I'm sorry.

Very sorry. You were saying?

Yeah, the banging of a client.

Oh, right, right. Enough about me.

How are you doing, in general?

I don't know. I mean...

It's a roller coaster of emotions.

You know, some good days, some bad days.

Actually, mostly bad days.

Actually, mostly awful days,

like God-awful days.

Like curl-up-in-a-ball and fall-down-a-deep-dark-well,

shatter-your-spinal-cord- on-impact-

and-drown-in-six-inches-of-water awful days.

Let me ask you something, Greg.

Have you been working out lately,

done any sort of physical activity?

Oh, God, you don't even want to know.

You know, Greg, physical exercise

is a necessary catalyst in the releasing of endorphins.

What the fuck is it with these goddamn endorphins?

Fuck!

Fuck you!

I hate endorphins!

I never wanted to fucking have them in the first place!

Fuck them.

I'm fine.

Odd yet interesting trigger point of anxiety.

How about male companionship?

Have you taken time to hang out

with any of your broheims lately,

since your breakup with Ashley?

No, I haven't.

Well, then, I suggest you make time for your homies.

Remember, Gregory, don't be a wussy

because of the pussy.

This is the good life, my friend.

Who woulda thought a couple of young kids

from Upstate New York would come out west

and absolutely crush it like we have?

Currently unemployed, and you're a professional

male house sitter mooching off celebrities.

Living the dream.

Oh, God.

So, what's going on with you, man?

You found your new roommate yet?

No, not yet.

I can't get out of that two-year lease.

Damn, dude.

How long you been lookin' for?

It's been 57 days since Ashley moved out.

Jesus H. What the hell's taking so long?

I put an ad out on craigslist,

by the next week, I had already kicked out a new roommate.

- Why'd you kick 'em out? - I caught him face-fucking

that gothic gargoyle statue in the foyer area.

You know, the marble one?

Oh, yeah.