And, fine, it's not the most romantic vibe in there, so it doesn't go over well when Greg asks Trista if she wants "a glass of wine, maybe." She sits on the couch holding a pillow that she's sure must be decorated entirely in festively-colored roach eggs (and, okay, she might not be wrong there), wondering if the "maybe" involves the possibility of another beverage choice involving an IV needle attached to a pole she can push onto the street herself, filled with something residing in the "pentathol" family. In one fell swoop, she then accuses him of having mice (which sounds as if it genuinely hurts his feelings), asks why he has eggs crates on his door (sound cushioning for when he plays his guitar), and refers to his place in an interview as a "bad apartment." Well, not really. In fact, she rationalizes her response to his place, promising, "I've dated guys with bad apartments before." While she was working off community service hours for some unknown crime, I gather. All while he shakes his head in reverence for her and tells her repeatedly what a great day he's had. And then finally plays the song he wrote her, and my sympathies fly right back to Trista's side of things. I'm not against her completely, but hands off the New York City real estate market you clearly cannot understand. Anyway: