There’s nothing better, homier or more comforting than coming home from a loooong day and curling up in front of my TV. It always knows what’s on my mind, what I’ve missed and what I’ve been craving. The TiVo–ed 90210 episode? Yes, please. Top Chef All Stars on demand? Um, duh. And don’t even get me started on the Lifetime Movie Network.
It’s become clear that I have an addiction. I can’t get enough of How I Met Your Mother or the ever–in–a–slump Grey’s Anatomy. I even succumbed to the Skins paradox. Maybe this stems from a strict two–hours–of–TV–a–week rule that was in place until I turned ten. Maybe it’s because I never had a TV in my room until I came to Penn. Or maybe I just like to be entertained.
Whatever the reason, my friends have joined in the fun. No longer am I secretly watching Desperate Housewives at 2 a.m. on a Monday, but instead I’m propped up in bed with two of my roommates bickering about Eva Longoria’s obsession with dolls. No longer am I creepily watching Jersey Shore on my computer in Houston, but instead I find myself screaming at Ronnie and Sammy’s offensive fights in a crowded living room.
I get it. This sounds pathetic. I’m hopelessly addicted to other people’s fictitious and sleazy lives. I’m sure there are plenty of psychological explanations for the TV–induced illness, but for now I’ll file them under “Things I don’t want to know.”
Often (and cheesily) Street becomes a second addiction. Soak up James Franco? That’s a no–brainer (p.6). Count how many times “vagina” can be printed on a single page? Challenge accepted (p.4). So maybe I’ll just combine the two and speedily read every archived Street while watching an America’s Next Top Model marathon. Done and done.
Toddlers and Tiaras,
