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Duchovny used the reunion as an opportunity to identify those who crafted some of Mulder’s more uncomfortable scenes. “Who wrote the episode where I had to appear in a Speedo?” he asks the nine writers assembled. Carter sheepishly raises his hand. When Jeff Bell asks whether that was worse than the episode featuring chicken wire and oil, Duchovny laughs. “Oh God, that was horrible,” he says. “Who was that?” Again, Carter raises his hand.

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It’s not easy being a mother. If it were easy, fathers would do it.

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And just like that, season four is behind us. I’m tempted to say that our nation’s long nightmare is over, but I’ve been rereading this year’s recaps (apologies for how frequently I said “Cool story, Glee,” everyone), and this season wasn’t all bad. After all, season 4 gave us “The Break Up,” one of the strongest hours of the entire series. It introduced us to the Secret Society of Superheroes, the strange multitudes contained within Sam Evans, the continuing enigma that is Lord Tubbington’s inner life, and the full-stop magic of Kurt singing “Being Alive.” It featured Emma and Santana and Blaine and Rachel straight killing Steven Sondheim and Alicia Keys and Elton John and Celine Dion, respectively. I mean, come on, season four gave us the Puckermen singing “Oh Hannukah” on the Paramount backlot, so it deserves at least a tiny bit of credit for that alone, right?

Sure, its lack of sensitivity was sometimes galling and its inability to handle complex issues was laughable at best and dangerous at worst. I don’t want to downplay that aspect of Glee; it makes me crazy, and I’m planning to keep calling it out, as I would really like it if no one got shot at or molested next season. But (and this is a big but), for all of its flaws, I keep watching, because every now and then, Glee still manages to strike this balance of feelings and music and, you know, occasional storytelling that resonates, that actually works. It comes less frequently than it used to, but it’s what I’m watching for.