I don’t understand Glee‘s writers. I really don’t. They’re like if really talented chefs prepared a four-course, five-star meal and right before they served it to you, literally every single time before they set the plate down on the table, they were like, “You know what’ll make this taste even better? If I spit in it.” And then you’re like, “Wow, gross. It looks good and smells good but all I can think about is how you fucking spit in it.” And they’re like, “God! We slave and slave and slave over these dinners and you’ll never be happy!” And you’re like, “I would be happy if you’d just stop spitting in the food!” And they’re like, “You hate all food!” And you’re like, “No, you asshole. I love food. I love your food. I just hate spit in my food.” And they’re like, “OK, here’s the same dish served a different way. And also here is my spit in it.” And you’re like, “Seriously? I can’t eat here anymore.” And they’re like, “Stupid angry lesbians.”
Just make the meal and stop spitting in, Glee! Jesus, how hard can that possibly be?!
[…]Let it be, let be. Let it be, let it be. Stop spitting in my pasta, frikkin’ Glee.