Nurse Jackie, you little minx, why do I want to believe you? Is it because I knew you when you were a mom from Queens kissing her perfect husband across the bar he was endlessly wiping with a rag? Sure you were cheating, but it was only with one guy and, I don’t know, I never took him seriously. And Vicodin is delicious, I get it.
You stole a dead nun’s credentials to blame her for a crime you committed. You used the money for your daughter’s private school tuition at a CVS pharmacy counter. You broke your own finger and put your foot under a moving car tire because it bought you five more seconds to think of your next excuse. You have to admire how resourceful you are, especially under the influence of a barbiturate sampler platter, and still manage to rock those blue scrubs that hug in all the right places. Some would call that “having it all.”
If a loved one became suspicious you threw a beaker of haughty, righteously indignant acid in their stupid face and ducked into a stairwell to sniff a bunch of fat lines of crushed painkillers, what’s not to love? You’re a great nurse when you’re high as a kite, what would you be sober, a librarian? I’m not watching a show about a librarian, Jackie.
But now, even the giant tear drops squeezed from your adorable daughters do nothing but give you ideas about speeding up your process by putting drugs directly into your eyes. I’m still with you, I really am, but using an elderly patient for her prescriptions that you sell to that sleazebag dealer you used to sleep with? Why would you hurt Eddie’s feelings like that? You know what a sensitive co-dependent enabler he is, come on. And you didn’t even thank them after they medically detoxed you in jail, don’t you realize how much vomiting time you saved? Just because you’re in the midst of a downward spiral is no reason to be rude.