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So how did some guy Gypsy met on the internet end up traveling across the country to stab her mom to death? According to the psychologists who testified at his hearing, Nick was a troubled young man with a difficult upbringing and an autism-spectrum diagnosis to boot.

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The two began a series of sexually-explicit exchanges that featured a digitized version of BDSM and role-play. In a interview with Dr. In order to match this dark persona, Gypsy created one of her own : an evil vixen named Ruby. She would then send the photos to Nick. I think we can go ahead and guess what he did with those pics, considering that he was once arrested for masturbating to porn at a McDonalds for nine hours.

Nick urged her to report her mother to the police, but she insisted that she had already tried to do so and failed. She felt that it was a non-escapable path she was on and she needed someone to understand her enough to be willing to basically risk their life for her. Gypsy had, indeed, attempted to run away from home but was caught by her mother, who smashed her laptop and phone and threatened to smash her fingers if she ever tried it again as a result. Being Mary Jane ended with a sappy, lovey-dovey ending that would've made its titular character happy.

But as I and many viewers expected, the finale film did leave much to be desired—and attempted to do too much, too fast in just two hours. To the creators' credit, I imagine it would be hard to completely wrap up four seasons of a character's notoriously complicated life in what's actually just one hour and 20 minutes, when you include commercial breaks.


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Despite many of the series' tropes—single Black woman agonizing over how to find a man—one of the most refreshing storylines has always been the relationship between BFFs MJ and Kara. For four seasons, we watched as the duo picked one another up after heartbreak with baked goods, strategized how to take over the morning TV world together, and even fought—and then made up—over work issues.

So in the finale, I looked forward to a tear-jerking moment where Mary Jane and Kara would offer us an opportunity to say goodbye, two friends all grown up and moving on with their lives. And we do get to see a happy ending for both women—for Mary Jane, as a new mom who ends up with her "unicorn" dream man, Justin Michael Ealy. Kara, meanwhile, learns that her boyfriend Orlando will stand by her side through anything— even when she finds out she has breast cancer and has to get a mastectomy, he proposes, promising to always be there.

I realize I am one of the very few Americans who knows the sound of rocks cutting through flesh and striking bone. One of the few to count the costs of adultery. Only ballerinas have such blunted, misshapen toes. But she knows, to the right eyes, even her toes are desirable. I can imagine as the water beads on her shoulders how cool her flesh will be for just a few more minutes. The indios watch us. A solemn teenager hefts his machete.

We are to have an uncomplicated view of the ocean from the citadel of this patio.

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Soon after, Bud Wilkins roars into the cleared patch that serves as the main parking lot. He backs his pickup so hard against a shade tree that a bird wheels up from its perch. Bud lines it up with an imaginary pistol and curls his finger twice in its direction. He stalks my chair. They drink more beer. Finally Eduardo comes out with a crate. He carries it bowlegged, in mincing little half-running steps.

The fishing tackle, of course. Low-grade arms transfer, rifles, ammo and maybe medicine. Alfred to Alfie before the jeep can have made it off the property. But make it fast, I have to run into San Vincente today. She stands at the front door about to join me on the patio when Eduardo rushes us, broom in hand. But she is calm. We follow. I can only hear desperate clawing and scraping on the tiles behind the stove.

Maria stomps the floor to scare it out. The houseboy shoves the broom handle in the dark space. I think first, being a child of the overheated deserts, giant scorpions. But there are two fugitives, not one, a pair of ocean crabs. The crabs, their shiny purple backs dotted with yellow, try to get by us to the beach where they can hear the waves. How do mating ocean crabs scuttle their way into Clovis T. I feel for them. The broom comes down, thwack, thwack, and bashes the shells in loud, succulent cracks. Ransome, Gringo, I hear. He sticks his dagger into the burlap sacks of green chemicals.

He rips, he cuts. She moves toward him, stops just short of taking his arm. The language of Cervantes does not stretch around the world without a few skips in transmission. Now I want you to go to your room, I want you to rest. His body has gone slack. I hear the word Santa Simona, a new saint for me. I maneuver him to the cot and keep him pinned down while Maria checks out a rusty medicine cabinet. He looks up at me. While she hovers over him, I check out his room. There are crates under the bed. The oilcloth is cracked and grimy. A chair by the table is a catchall for clothes, shorts, even a bowl of fruit.

The walls are hung with icons of saints. Baby-faced men and women.

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The women are sensual in an old-fashioned, Latin way, with red curvy lips, big breasts and tiny waists. Like Maria. Quite a few are unconvincing blondes, in that brassy Latin way. The men have greater range. Some are young versions of Fernando Lamas, some are in fatigues and boots, striking Robin Hood poses. The handsomest is dressed as a guerrilla with all the right accessories: beret, black boots, bandolier. The bashed shells are on the tiles.

Ants have already discovered the flattened meat of ocean crabs, the blistered bodies of clumsy toads. Maria tells me to set the table. Every day we use a lace cloth, heavy silverware, roses in a vase. Every day we drink champagne. Some mornings the Ransomes start on the champagne with breakfast.


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She comes out with a tray. Say no to me, I mean. Do you mind if I use your w. This may be intimacy. The road to San Vincente is rough. Deep ruts have been cut into the surface by army trucks. Whole convoys must have passed this way during the last rainy season. I have to stop off near here to run an errand. She touches me when she talks. I make it sharper than I intended. A pond appears and around it shacks with vegetable gardens. I see some women here, and kids, roosters, dogs. What Santa Simona is is a rest stop for families on the run. I deny simple parallels. Whole convoys must have parked here during the rainy season.

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The ruts hint at secrets. Now in the dry season what might be a lake has shrunk into a muddy pit. Ducks float on green scum. Maria motions me to get out. The way her bottom bounces inside those cutoffs could drive a man crazy. Some job for a middleman. You bet I could use a drink. We pass by the first shack.

Three men come at me, twirling tire irons the way night sticks are fondled by Manhattan cops. Or Clovis himself? We pass the second shack, and a third. Then a tall guerrilla in full battle dress floats out of nowhere and blocks our path.

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She has her back to me. His big hands cup and squeeze her halter top. He looks me over. She shrugs. We go inside the command shack. I need a comfortable place to deal with my traumas. There is a sofa of sorts, actually a car seat pushed tight against a wall and stabilized with bits of lumber. There are bullet holes through the fabric, and rusty stains that can only be blood. I reject the sofa. There are no tables, no chairs, no posters, no wall decorations of any kind, unless you count a crucifix. Above the cot, a sad, dark, plaster crucified Jesus recalls His time in the desert.

She walks behind a curtain and pulls a six-pack of Heinekens from a noisy refrigerator.