Getting jacked outta my house in the middle of 'The Real Housewives of New Orleans' is, oddly enough, a regular enough occurrence that I tend to shrug shit like that off. Being slapped in the middle of someplace that looks like New York circa the early to mid-aughts with a vague as fuck allusion to being stuck here for the rest of my life, though? Yeah, no.
Cranky isn't exactly what I'd call what I'm feeling.