As I see you hysterically banging on our neighbors’ doors, telling strangers that earlier today you saw Lena Dunham eating a sauced-up egg roll on the subway, I think, friend, you’ve changed. We can safely say this has passed through the phases of girl crush, fan, fervent supporter, unsolicited bodyguard applicant, fragrance imaginer, fan again (when you were traveling and pretty busy), and has now crossed the threshold into unhealthy addiction. And please don’t act like it affects just you.

For the past month I’ve seen you counting down the days until you can take your first Season 2 swig of that Brooklyn jungle juice. A kind of Girls Advent Calendar, which you made and sold on etsy. You aren’t the friend I know. The friend who used to meet me at a restaurant for free bread rolls after my unsuccessful job interview and said, “Ah, they’re idiots. Let’s say we’ll egg their office but don’t actually.”

Now it seems like you never hang out. When I asked you to come tipsy ice skating with me and Jessica in the park, you said you couldn’t because you had to work. But as I was leaving, I saw you cutting out and coloring paper dolls that looked like Lena Dunham and Jemima Kirke. You were making motions with them and saying in a British accent, “No, Hannah, boys don’t like to be spanked. -But what about Adam? -Adam’s a freak and needs to learn his manners; he deserves to be spanked. Also, my pants are very billowy; very light and floofy.”

And what about the time you talked like Shoshanna for a week and kept telling me you’re “a combination of Samantha and the bubbles from an orange Fanta”? And I was like, this makes no sense. Then you asked me if what I wrote in my journal about you was true. I said, Oh my God, what? You said, “You know, the Girls episode where Charlie and Ray read Hannah’s journal entry about Marnie? Hey, let’s paint a wall with a bunch of signs that say ‘sorry.’” At which point I crawled under the sofa and got in the fetal position, gently rocking until I cried myself to sleep.

Then you asked me if I wanted to have a spontaneous, late-night Robyn dance party, and I said yes.

This isn’t the first time, either. How many Freaks and Geeks marathons have you competed in? Five? After the first one, yeah, congratulations are in order. After the second one, I don’t get upset if you wear a medal the day afterward. With the third, it’s starting to get a little old. By number five, it’s like, yes, we get it; and we hope the ice you’re applying to your hamstring helps you recover.

There are additional problems. You have started barging in on me when I’m peeing so we can talk, like they do on the show. This is not OK. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a dude.

You repeatedly watched the scene from Tiny Furniture where Lena gets fucked doggy-style inside a tube by some weirdo. You went into a long thing about how it’s not true to your own experience, but it’s true in a broader metaphysical way. I agreed and was like, fine, now please let’s finish this karaoke duet. People are staring at us.

You’ve been staying up all night, reading think-pieces online about what it all means. Why are they all white? Why are they all the daughters of other celebrities? Why does Adam go from being a twisted freak to one of the most endearing, awesome characters on TV? Hard to say, but maybe it has to do with doing push-ups or Oberlin.

Yes, I peeked over your shoulder when you were eating cereal one morning and saw you at your laptop, looking up where Oberlin College is on Google Maps. Newsflash, idiot: I think it’s in Ohio? You even went into streetview and were like, this is the fountain where Lena made her famous stripping youtube video; this is where it all started. I put down my orange juice, got real quiet, and moonwalked out of the room.

So yeah, I’ll watch the next season with you. I’ll even make popcorn and bring my freakishly warm blanket that once lit someone’s chest on fire (I bought it in Taos and it was charmed by an Ancient Healer). But please just chill out about things.