I did seriously think about changing my tag line to, "Did we just marry the devil? Because I'm not sure I'm down with that."
Wash ,'Our Mrs. Reynolds'
The Minearverse 6: Fiery Thread of Death
[NAFDA] "There will be an occasional happy, so that it might be crushed under the boot of the writer." From Zorro to Angel (including Wonderfalls, The Inside and Drive), this is where Buffistas come to anoint themselves in the bloodbath. Oh, and help us get Terriers dvds!
He came out of nowhere, though! I don't remember her even mentioning a husband in the first episode.
I thought it was a flashback! But no, SECRET HUSBAND.
I did seriously think about changing my tag line to, "Did we just marry the devil? Because I'm not sure I'm down with that."
If not that, the yellow-eyed demon, I was thinking.
Between the girls flinging magical attacks at everyone who annoys them and Fiona now taking over (you just know she'd be the type to make a play for her daughter's husband), I don't blame Cordelia one bit for not having him in evidence around the school.
Every season, I'm surprised at just how far they'll go, and the next season, they go farther still.
I can't decide if I like what they're doing with the white/black/red clothing, or if it's a little too much of an anvil.
And Patti Lupone is giving a very restrained performance! Brava.
This show is just one long "Holy shit" moment? Alrighty then. I would say where can they even go from here, but I'm scared of the answer.
I would say where can they even go from here, but I'm scared of the answer.
They still can't go as far as the pay cable stations. So count blessings.
Oh, I'm actually scared in a good way. And honestly, pay cable has kind of got nothing on this show even as it now stands. I'm going to be seeing Mare Winningham's face (or what was left of it) in my nightmares for a while. Good heavens!
I did think "You can't be your best self until you find your tribe" was totally appropriate here. Not that I'm expecting anyone here to do blood magic.
I also need to listen to all of my Stevie Nicks in a dimly lit room, lying on the floor, with tragic unfinished poems strewn around me.
With periodic breaks to get up, wrap yourself in black lace and spin. There should be lots and lots of spinning.