It's not that you want to carry your children on your back, exactly. It's just that there are times when you want to hold them so tightly that they couldn't hurt themselves if they wanted to.
SUSAN TRIES TO BE LOIS LANE
Much of her day, but it rarely works because the next thing is always coming. Like right now, she's pulling on her panties in the house where she used to live, tossing off wisecracks, making Alex feel shitty in the precise way he adores and he keeps sliding off into this vague sort of yearning man-sadness that could make you puke for days. If you're going to punish us for shitting where we eat, then why do you keep fucking us? If you don't want your toys broken then why do you keep breaking them?
Susan: "Don't worry, I'll get out in time for you to call Georgia."
Alex: Mute man-sadness.
Susan: "That was ... meant to be a joke."
Alex: "You're not saying that you'll get back with me if I split with her?"
Susan: "Fuck no."
Okay, she wonders, then why Georgia? Why specifically her, the little harmless sweet blogger that lets everybody kick her around. How can you be the man that's in love with me and also be the man that's fucking her? Those are two different men, from where I'm sitting. Because we are two very different women. And if you can't even tell the difference? That speaks poorly of us all.
Alex: "By the time I slept with her, you and I had... faded. You remember our first night in Monterey?"
Susan: "Yeah. The night Garcetti named his transition team. Yes."
Alex: "You see, you remember the politics, and I remember how beautiful you looked. Even with your nose buried in your BlackBerry."
Two quick things: Fuck you, that's some Aaron Sorkin shit right there. And number two, what you're saying is I should have your job. You fucking pansy.
Alex, forthrightly enough: "I'm not blaming you, I'm trying to answer your question. It's who you are, the way you chase a story. I mean, that's... You live for it. You don't need love the way you need your work. At least you didn't need mine."
Does that save it? Maybe it does. What we love most in others is what we fear most that we lack. She needs something to hit, in order to function and that thing happens to be the truth. The story. If your best response to that, to that holy function, to that responsibility to the beauty of the engine, is "I need a more dependent girlfriend," then have I got the intern blogger for you. At least until she learns from you -- and it won't take long, my friend; you're an excellent teacher -- that she was never that person at all.