The New York City in which the George Washington Bridge acts as the gateway to Soho owes me fifty trillion dollars in back pay from cab fares incurred anywhere between the two. We montage from that bridge -- named as such because of its powdery wig and inability to tell lies -- to the façade of the ZoLoft, which is probably, in fact, on an L.A. soundstage somewhere because the exteriors in this city we'll call "Newer York" aren't up to snuff with the actual city they're trying to portray. Actually, on second glance, that shot may well have been of the Williamsburg Bridge. Which is really quite close to Soho. Is that the Manhattan Bridge?
Up inside the ZoLoft, we join Xiomara in progress as she walks around the apartment in shorty shorty short shorts (or, as this garment would be known if worn by anyone else on Earth: pants), telling us, "We're so tired because we only had two hours of sleep from the night before." I don't have any idea why they've only gotten two hours of sleep and no explanation is immediately offered up, so I'll just guess it has something to do with "the volume and duration of Catie's continuing racking sobs," and we'll try for once to stick to the linear recapping thread. Xiomara tells us that she feels she has to "one-up everyone else with what [she's] doing because the last judging they told [her] that was [her] weakest week ever, and [she] will never allow that to happen again. Ever." Bugging her eyes out in the traditional fashion and shaking her head slowly, Xiomara is but a mere swinging stopwatch away from hypnotizing the entirety of the viewing audience into repeating "never. Ever. Ever" over and over and over again until we are entranced into believing her, while the confessional booth camera operator wakes up the next morning and doesn't know why he can't stop clucking like a chicken.
Adorable mop-top superstar Catie Culkin, meanwhile, lies in bed too exhausted to cry or speak, her inner monologue instead left up to the wiles of that old reality-show staple, "sulky voice-over confessional." She tells us from the comfort of her angsty teen years, "I've never been under this much pressure. And I actually think I'm handling it very well." By lying in bed and crying weakly like she's afflicted with a disease so rare it exists entirely in the nineteenth century, like consumption or black bile. A quick edit shows Catie emerging from her room and consuming some cereal. I guess besides the backtalk, narcissism, and overall histrionics, she really is handling it pretty well. After all those weeks sequestered in her bed chambers, The Lady Catie finally feels strong enough to venture into the sitting room! Is it St. Swithin's Day already?