Ka-mee-LAH! Ka-mee-LAH! Ka-mee-LAH! Okay, she so kicks ass this week. Syrus cannot be stopped. And yet he must be. So very soon. STOP HIM!!! Sorry.

An opening montage of numerous housemates inexplicably toting large bags of dirty laundry down the wintry Boston streets (Heh. "Wintry." I might as well have used the pointless adjective "cement" or "streetlike" to describe the ground below them, so self-evident is the cold-indicating modifier of "wintry") ends with the Somber Seven entering the Center for Center Center, those bags of laundry having been successfully dropped off at some out-of-context and shoddily edited laundry-washing sequence from any number of previous episodes that are definitely not this one. Inside the CCC, the soundtrack kicks into that folksy instrumental classic, the dour, "Woe Be it to My Maudlin Impending Back Story," as we are treated to any number of sullen and introspective shots of Genesis thinking, thinking, thinking. She impatiently taps a product-placed brown pump against the uncaring linoleum floor, until we cut to the interior of Poor, Poor Anthony's office, which Genesis has clearly mistaken for the confessional room as she prattles on, "Everybody here already seems to have experience with kids, and I have absolutely nothing to compare it to. I was never around kids. I didn't have a good childhood, myself, and I have nothing to look back on and reflect on [self-conscious cough] and take from that [even more self-conscious, mommy-was-too-drunk-to-take-me-for-a-polio-vaccine-and-can't-you-see-me-crumble cough] and apply it now." She doesn't know how to play any games. She doesn't feel that she can interact with the kids. She wanted you to know.

Slumping ever lower in his faux-leather desk chair and adopting that increasingly familiar "my social work degree clearly stipulates that the kids I should be babysitting will, in most cases, be YOUNGER THAN I AM" glazed-over glare of helpless despondency that consumes him whenever one of his seven charges deigns to move or speak, Anthony rhetorically (or so he thinks) volleys, "Did you have a childhood?" Genesis responds that she did not, and I'm bummed when the put-upon program director at the CCC doesn't just down a tall glass of moxie for once and hurl back, "No childhood, eh? Well, Sadsy McOldster, if you were really born a twenty-three-year-old lesbian with the self-esteem of a scoliosis-plagued seventh grader and the garish rouge-y red lipstick shades brought to New England from the southern debutante ball your mother still rues ever having referred to as your 'coming-out party' in the first damned place, I'd say it's possible you have slightly larger problems than not understanding the rules to hopscotch. You think?" But he does not say that, perhaps as a direct result of Genesis's continuing diatribe on her ignorance concerning children's games and toys. She tells Poor, Poor Anthony that she doesn't understand the [big quotes] "arts and crafts" that come so easily to her kid-friendly roommates and has never seen [bigger quotes] "these games" the kids all play, because she never played any games. Um, are we legitimately supposed to sympathize with her games-free, ignorant-of-contemporary-mores-plight, or is she just reciting verbatim dialogue from a recently aired segment of "Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer"? Anthony muses for a moment and proclaims the situation as "tough." Genesis agrees that her life has, in fact, been "tough." I don't want to burst your bubble or anything, Genesis, but if Poor, Poor Anthony has one ounce of your self-indulgence in his whole body that you have in your little finger, I have simply GOT to believe that he's talking about himself. He actually dispenses an excellent piece of advice, telling her, "Just interact with children on an individual, one-to-one basis, and if you become a friend even to one child, you've succeeded." She seems convinced. She asks hopefully, "I didn't freak you out, did I?" He responds, "Nothing freaks me out," which means, of course, "Your problems are small and funny to me." Poor, poor Anthony.