Six Feet Under
The Invisible Woman

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Dead women tell no tales

Anyway, Ruth is saddened to learn that the DGDJ died alone, and David continues making suggestions, this time opining that "everyone has friends from high school." "No they don't," interjects Claire. "Maybe they have people they talk to or even do things with, but they're not friends. They're just filler." Everyone stares at her. "What?" she snarks. "It's true." Actually, no it isn't. And while we do all get the irony of Claire the high school student pontificating on this subject, the reality is so far from being accurate that the entire point is undermined. Virtually all of my friends these days are high school friends. Hell, one of them even still posts in the forums. Hi, Myn! Hey, remember tenth grade, when I pushed you into that bucket? Yeah. Those were good times. Ruth walks out of the room to set up Claire's next line, uh, I mean, "get a glass of wine," and Claire quickly inquires as to whether or not Nate is feeling fine. He says he is (not very believably), and his siblings sort of shrug and take him at his word. Ruth returns just in time to hear David lay out a little gem. "Maybe Emily Previn was autistic," he explains. "I read an article once about a high-functioning autistic person who didn't need people. She just had a job designing these big cattle slaughterhouses and at night, she came home and sat in this little machine that made her feel like she was being hugged. That's all the intimacy she needed." "That's really upsetting," replies Nate, which is funny in and of itself, but I actually missed it the first three times because I was busy laughing at David's hand gestures on the "hugging machine" part. Claire, however, fails to see the humor in the situation. "I don't see why this person has to be mentally ill just because she didn't have a life that conforms to some familiar image in our heads. I mean, maybe she was living the life she wanted. A life without the hassle of other people." Sing it, sister! Other people suck. Ruth does one of her patented screechy flip-outs, and the scene is over.

Cut to Hal's Bar & Grill, where David is having coffee with some nice boy he met in church. The guy is apparently a lawyer of some sort, since the scene opens with the tail-end of the punch line to a legal joke. David exposits that his date is a public defender, and then cracks a legal "joke" of his own by saying that he could only be a "some-of-the-public defender." When asked what he does for a living, David stammers for a moment before claiming that he's in "textiles." "Oh," answers the date. "Well, I like fabric." Oy. This is worse than most of my dates. I've also decided to dub this guy the Little White Sex Dork to assuage the concerns of those of you who continue to feel I'm being racist by pointing out that Keith is black. And big. And a cop. Who has sex. Anyway, the Little White Sex Dork has to leave because he has work in the morning, and David instantly assumes he's being blown off. After some awkwardness, however, it's established that the LWSD actually is interested, and only appears calm and unfeeling because he took a beta-blocker prior to their meeting. "Do you have any extra?" asks David. Heh. LWSD suggests that they go on a real date sometime, and then asks if David is coming out of a bad relationship. "No, I'm coming out of a bad celibacy," answers David, before explaining that he was in a relationship that ended a while back. "Well, whatever happened, I blame him," says the Little White Sex Dork. "Don't," says David. "He's a great guy."

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Six Feet Under

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