Oh, Los Angeles. So soon shall I see your smoggy, shabby, sun-shine-y self once more. I guarantee you that by the time I get out there in early June, the first In Touch cover saying that it's over between Jesse and Jessica will already have run. Someone fact-check that and let me know. I'd do it myself, but I can't on account of the cover of that magazine singeing my fingertips every time I try to touch it. Jesse's chillin' in a pimpin' limo, telling us that we've returned to L.A. and that we're going to go ring shopping. Tara, similarly, is going ring shopping. They're meeting there. In lovely, historic Beverly Hills, the borders of which are cleverly denoted by a montage-friendly sign reading "Beverly Hills," the one they show heading west on Wilshire Boulevard, exactly nine feet away from my old office building. For those of you captivated by the thrilling new field of me-ography.
And, Tacori. Man, did they do right by Trista and Ryan, or what? Wasn't this show all about the Harry Winston until the wedding? Strummy music plays as Tara tries on some rings, and she tells us in a confessional that she wasn't nervous until now, but that she now is. She tries on a ring that's basically just a circle of all diamonds, and when she pronounces it is "shiny, even more so than the rest," Jesse mutters in utter seriousness that she'll have to "compete with the other player's wives. It really is an unironic dismay I feel for him. With Bob, I had to emotionally invest in my hate for him because it always manifested itself in such new and interesting ways. With Andrew, I hated him as a stinging indictment against all the world's wealthy. But this? It's so straightforward. It's the dumb, over-aggressive kid in your seventh grade gym class's flag football team. It's the moron who was your lab partner in four consecutive years of science class because his name came alphabetically right after yours. It's the kid who did arm farts at graduation even after the principal himself got up to the podium and announced, "Such immaturity is no way to commemorate what is supposed to be a passage into maturity. You should be ashamed of yourselves." It's the hate that lives closest to home.