No, this is Victoria’s victory lap.
Although, it’s hard to enjoy a victory when you’re dead from blowing yourself up.
Viccy didn’t think that one through.
No. Just the climax of Revenge.
I don’t know if you can see it, but there’s a tiny little speck of melted plastic visible in that explosion.
You know who I mean.
Ahh, good times.
Yes, now that every single important character knows Emily’s secret, it’s time for the world at large to get in on the goss.
This is the kind of thing hospital research wing groundbreaking galas usually end on, right?
Oh, dear. I hope the baby (isn’t) okay.
While watching this episode, I came to the conclusion that Emily should just straight-up murder Margaux, and that would be that.
She doesn’t, obviously.
But I won’t knock back a reckless taxi sent from the heavens.
Things just got middle-aged sassy.
God, when was the last time we saw Mason? Almost 18 months ago?
Oh no. Season 2 is seeping back in.
It’s an everyday struggle for her.
Everybody break out your Grace Kelly impressions, because we’re going to Monte Carlo night.
But nobody invite Nicole Kidman. Please.
At the opera tonight.
Another episode, another Victoria victory that isn’t really because Emily engineered it and Victoria is an in-the-dark fool.
But you can’t beat an opera smack down.
“And I know… I need to fucking exfoliate.”
Oh thank god, it’s been too long.
Don’t scare me like that again.
I’d probably choose the cake. If you were wondering.
Well, first we had death-by-rape.
Then we had making a man out of Kyle.
I didn’t expect to get horrified again, but American Horror Story has managed to turn even Mare Winningham into a debauched nightmare.
God, it’s good.
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I Just Hate Everything
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