http://grantland.com/features/broad-city-season-2-comedy-central-abbi-jacobson-ilana-glazer/

But at its core, Broad City is still a love story — just one about two hapless, pot-smoking, sexually experimental, striving, swearing, struggling, inseparable young gal pals running amok on the streets of modern-day New York City. The main characters, Abbi Abrams and Ilana Wexler, are completely, unshakably obsessed with one another. They are intoxicated by (and often in) each other’s presence, full partners in crime and life. Their New York is the New York that can be experienced only as a duo: a kaleidoscopic playground made for two, the kind of cinematic, heightened fun-house version of the city that accompanies the most epic, swooning romances. Abbi and Ilana live separately but share nearly everything: drugs, stomach issues, sexual fantasies, shattering ego blows, visions of grandiosity, and high-stakes capers to solve low-stakes problems. They staunchly refuse to judge one another’s outsize behavior; instead, they practice radical mutual acceptance. Between them there are no boundaries, no topic too taboo. Consider a scene from the new season: As the pair sit snuggled in the same blanket, on the same bed, drinking the same type of iced mocha lattes, Abbi expresses horror about potentially pooping herself one day during childbirth. Ilana soothes her, telling her that “if it happens to me, you have my permission not to look.” Abbi sighs: “I’m going to see you give birth, then?” “Bitch, duh,” Ilana says. “Who else would be my focal point?” They are codependent, co-obsessed, copilots.

Thus Broad City was born in 2009 as a scrappy YouTube web series. The first episode is just two minutes long and shot on zero budget. In it, Ilana gives a homeless man a $10 bill and tries to get change back so she and Abbi can still afford bagels. Even the early webisodes establish their comic interplay: “Ilana” is the feisty tomboy, an imp with untamable curly hair, an eternal optimist in the way that certain con men are: The world can always be manipulated for her pleasure. She dresses like a combination of a ’90s fly girl and a postmillennial health goth, tiny shorts and basketball jerseys, her belly button constantly exposed to the open air. She hates work and is always broke, but still considers herself to be on a mogul trajectory. “Abbi” is the dreamer. She wants to be a famous artist. Her hero is Oprah, whose likeness she has tattooed onto the small of her back. She is not the straight man, but instead is just neurotic in a more subdued way; she channels her anxiety into a rich imaginative life. She wears shabby cardigans and low-top sneakers, the uniform of a girl who can only afford big box stores (the one time she decides to go on a shopping spree, she tells the saleswoman that she will be returning the dress within the month). Both women medicate, meditate, and celebrate with marijuana. Both have faith in each other’s inherent greatness: They are each the best person the other has ever met. This is where the comedy comes in: They never, ever say no to each other. It is only, always, “yes and … ” And then the high jinks ensue.

“Look, sometimes it is still hard,” sighed Glazer. “Some people are scared of us, and some think we are dumb little girls. But the way we combat that is just being ourselves in meetings. And having a partner makes that so easy, because when all else fails, I’ll just talk across the table at Abbi like we are chilling by ourselves.”
“Honestly, we regularly forget that other people are in these meetings with us,” Jacobson said.” We are so used to just talking to each other. We do it all day long, all night long. I’m on Skype with Ilana when I go to bed and then again when I wake up. It’s not like we never have disagreements, but we also just really like talking to each other the most.”
“And it freaks people out!” said Glazer. “There is so much power in being able to look comfortable in a conference room, and I’m not sure dudes in suits are used to seeing women do that.”
You can see how Glazer and Jacobson would intimidate anyone in a room with them: They talk so quickly that they seem to share a stream of consciousness. They talk like all BFFs in the era of instant messaging, sending verbal links back and forth about things they saw or read, saving little bits and pieces for later. They traffic in pop-culture references and Internet slang; they are each other’s favorite IRL Twitter feed. Ultimately, snippets of these conversations will end up in the show. They are doing work even when they are not working, building on their banter, winding in and out of silly voices and secret handshakes. Their chemistry is electric, but also familiar. Anyone with a best friend would recognize it.
When you hang out with Glazer and Jacobson, it doesn’t take much to spark the verbal chain of chemical reactions that can keep them bouncing back and forth with obscure facts, gossip, and ephemera for hours. All you have to do is set the top spinning. When Glazer ordered hot water with lemon at the diner, I mentioned that this was a very Hollywood thing to do.

It went on like this for the rest of the hour — when Glazer stopped, Jacobson started, and neither is more high-energy than the other; instead, their conversation flowed in an ever-shifting osmosis. They often go off on fluttery tangents, sounding stoned even when they aren’t. Apropos of nothing, Jacobson started to talk about art school. “I know this is, like, really abstract or whatever, but my favorite teacher once said that the painting isn’t the art, but the art is the space between the viewer and the painting. So when we make the show, we are always talking about how the show is really in between what we make and what the viewer thinks of it.”
“You are so right, dude,” Glazer said. “We just want people to feel less lonely after watching it.”