(Not to get into anything technical, but I’m writing this from a new computer. And it’s freakin’ sweet.)
By now, you’re actually beginning to have thoughts along the lines of, “Women’s entertainment? Just what sort of woman is this supposed to be entertaining? Can it even be classified as entertainment at all? Who gets paid to make this crap? Do people get paid to make this crap?” You know, that sort of thing. But you brave on; because the evasive remote is still missing.
If you’d expected that the wife’d be entirely indebted to him (and end up some sort of weird subservient slave) because he:
– found a woman with a compatible lung who was willing to donate it when she died,
– killed aforementioned woman conveniently close to his wife, and
– made sure her organ was transplanted to his wife, saving her life,
you’d be wrong.
I mean, come on. If someone went through all that trouble for me, the least I could do is satiate them sexually. But not this wife, no. She’s still harping on the one tiny detail; that he slept with the other woman (for her no less; and what of all those times she got off observing them hidden in the closet?). She resents him entirely. But she’s all operational now (as in can breathe without that huge oxygen-tank-mask-contraption thing), and has needs too. So what does she do? She runs-off and begins to sleep with random men as she’s travelling—to promote her children’s books, which have now magically become a success! (You know the writers are doing their best to get her to strip, god-awful scar and all).
By now, you’ve lost way more hours that you’ll never ever get back than you can count. And you go, “Screw the remote!!,” as you begin to flail your arms and kick your extended legs hoping you’ll knock the TV off its stand, saving you from further agony.
So the tale ends there, abrupt as it is, because that’s as much as I could take. No, I don’t need to go to the store to buy a new TV; it turns out I was sitting on the remote all along.