Listen up, darlings—Ms. Rizzlerina has arrived, draped in glitter and ready to unravel one of TV’s juiciest finales with a dramatic toss of her metaphorical fur. Prepare yourselves, because we’re diving headfirst into the swirling, velvet-draped vortex that is Joe Goldberg’s swan song in Netflix’s twisted, tantalizing psychological thriller, You. And honey, when I say it’s a *moment*, I mean it in all caps, bolded, underlined with red glitter: A MOMENT.
Now before we get into it, let’s set the scene. The lights are dim. The prison cell is cold. The air is thick with regrets and existential dread (as one does when they’re serving time for, oh you know, a smorgasbord of crimes ranging from stalking to murder). And there sits our very problematic fave, Joe Goldberg—still devastatingly introspective, still serving brooding intellectual realness, and still making us question why we’d even consider feeling bad for him in the first place.
But oh sweetie, it’s those final words—those chilling, disturbingly profound reflections—that sent reverberations through the pop culture cosmos.
Joe, played with haunting finesse by Penn Badgley (seriously, Emmy committee—are you paying attention?), doesn’t go out with a bang. No baby, he goes out with a whisper full of venom, madness, and a skewed kind of clarity. In his final monologue, he dares to ask the question we’ve all pondered through four seasons of psychological rollercoaster antics:
“Am I a monster… or am I just what you made me?”
Whew. Pass the tissues and the tequila, because that’s the kind of “what is wrong with men” introspection that hits harder than a pop diva’s breakup ballad at 2 a.m.
Now let me break it down in fabulous fashion, fam—because this isn’t just a man reckoning with his sins. It’s a deeply uncomfortable look at how we, as a culture, romanticize danger when it’s dressed in bookstore charm and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Joe Goldberg has always been a walking contradiction—equal parts loving and lethal, reflective yet remorseless. And as he muses behind bars, the real twist isn’t whether justice is served—it’s the realization that Joe still believes we, the viewers, understand him. That somewhere, deep down, we *get* why he did it all.
It’s giving delusion, but make it Shakespearean.
So what are we to make of this final mic drop? Is Joe the monster he pretends not to be—or is he a grim mirror to the romanticized red flags we swipe right on every day? Honey, that’s a question best pondered with a charcuterie board and a splash of rosé, because it’s layered, complex, and deeply unsettling. Just like our not-so-dear Joe.
And let’s not forget the real MVP here—Penn Badgley, who took this maniacal mess and turned him into someone so watchable it’s criminal. Give that man his crown, his Emmy, and a permanent spot in the pop culture hall of morally gray heartthrobs.
As we say goodbye to Joe Goldberg, may we all commit to loving ourselves enough not to fall for men who keep severed body parts in hidden boxes. And to Netflix—I see you. Don’t you *dare* try to spin-off this man into some redemption tour. Let the curtains close, the cell door lock, and the chilling final words echo into the abyss.
Joe Goldberg is over. But the legend of his literary lunacy? Eternal.
Stay fabulous and let the gossip roll,
Ms. Rizzlerina
