Previously on Roswell: Seriously, y'all, I don't remember any of this shit. Even though the "previously" section is 377 minutes long this week. Seriously, we get it. We're reminded. No need to play the entirety of all human history just because it happens previously to the start of the episode. Max jumps out a window. Max dies. Max gets old. Liz cries. Max looks in a mirror. Farrah Fawcett overacts. Man climbs from primordial ooze. The Crusades are fought. God invents jam. And we're all caught up. Thanks. It all happened previously.
Jesse "Memories of a Gay, Sure" Ramirez all but acts his way out of his festive lavender collar as he tries to look pensive. He stares with longing. Cut to a shot of another man, staring longingly back. All is sufficiently explained. The end. Cut back to Jesse, staring and waiting. Waiting and staring. The producers consider some more previouslys. Wooly mammoth roams the earth. Depeche Mode records their first album. God invents another flavor of jam. Waiting and staring and waiting and waiting and waiting. Yep, this is the same show all right. Finally, after a bit more waiting and not a little staring, the "writers" show up and decide to pick up an old drifting scrap of a Mad Libs that brushed against the wall of the "Writer's" Room, cross out "Bill's Trip to the Circus" across the top, and replace it with "Roswell 315: Who Died and Made You King." And from that high-class pedigree comes our first scripted line from Jesse: "They're looking at me differently." The man to whom Jesse speaks -- a funhouse-mirror doppelganger of Mr. Evans, if anyone remembers who that is -- volleys back, "That's understandable. They're curious to see how you'll react to this new information." Come to think of it, that's a pretty lame Mad Lib. If I were writing this episode, that line would have been, "That's understandable. They're curious to see how you'll react to this new whoopee cushion." But alas, no job offer has as yet been tendered. I guess Jesse is in therapy. When in doubt, therapy. Jesse frets, "I don't think they trust me. I think they think I'm a threat." Think think I threat I think threat threat. Elegant prose, indeed. Melfi lobs back from the safety of his armchair, "Do you think they're worried that you'll tell the truth about them?" Think you they they think you worry? Jesse's not quite sure what to make of the question either, so he hazards a response of any kind, "If they found out that I was talking to you..." Melfi flaunts his TV MD and reassures Jesse that "you can talk freely, as long as you don't tell me anyone's in trouble." So Jesse cops to being "scared," and Melfi doesn't miss a beat before responding, "Your anxiety is completely normal." Thanks again, Dr. Agreesalot. Your shameless pandering is highly constructive. Jesse continues on that "Isabel is a good person." Except that she's not. A person. "I love her. It's just them. She suffered protecting their secrets." Which are her secrets as well, considering her previously established non-person status. The "writers" never should have written in "person" when the Mad Lib asked for a noun. Here's one that would have been better: "Isabel is a good fart." Because someone always chooses "fart."