Since Laura Eason calls her tense romantic comedy Sex With Strangers, audiences can be forgiven for jumping to the correct conclusion that these strangers -- they're both writers -- won't waste too much time before having torrid sex with each other.
I hate the last episode of Seinfeld. This is an admittedly odd way to open up an essay that is primarily about Friends. I also realize this isn't a particularly unique or notable sentence to write considering that most people who have seen the last episode of Seinfeld share this opinion.
D'Amour's intentions might be accepted, and even applauded, if she supported her characters with three-dimensional grounding. But here's where she allows herself to believe that presenting a gloomy prediction of national spoilage is all she needs to do. (Or is she just being lazy?)