Sometimes, it’s healthy to take a step away from yourself and evaluate your life from afar like one of those Tween Queen bitches from middle school used to do to me in the mall food court.
By performing this judgmental evaluation of yourself, two conclusions can be drawn:
1) “You fuckin’ rock at life, you hot piece of ass.”
or
2) “Sweet Jesus, what kind of human garbage have you become, you useless future agoraphobe?”
Sadly, I did not come to Conclusion #1. I do not rock at life, and I am not a hot piece of ass.
I am hopelessly devoted and Intervention-level addicted to TV.
It’s unhealthy.
In retrospect, I really should have noticed the warning signs.
For example, when I heard that “30 Rock” was going to be cancelled, my first reaction was something like this:
This reaction quickly turned into:
After shoving several dozen peanut-butter cupcakes into my tear-ridden face (baked by yours truly- that’s right, this bitch can bake), I took a trip back in time to see if there had been any other signs warning me of my addiction.
Oh god, were there ever.
I remembered a time not so long ago when I explained, in great detail, the process of meth production and distribution to my twelve year-old brother.
As well as the process of money-laundering.
He believed I knew from personal experience and looked at me with a combination of awe and fear.
No, sweet child, your sister is not a money-laundering meth dealer, she is simply delusional.
When my sister suggested quietly that maybe I should set the record straight, I replied with:
And walked away.
To a well-adjusted human being, this would have been enough for their conscience to say: “Hey man, maybe you should stop watching the idiot box so much… You’re not doing so good, bro.”
But not for this raging beast of TV burden (I know that doesn’t make sense, but I’M DISTRAUGHT).
My friends began to compare me to Abed from Community….and I didn’t even care. Sweet Beyonce on High, I was flattered.
FLATTERED.
Granted, he is the best character on the show and he’s pretty awesome and whatnot, but we’re talking about a character whose friends only keep him around because his delusions make their lives more entertaining.
Whatever, I thought.
The final red flag waved at me like a French prostitute’s TB-infested handkerchief on Bastille Day.
i.e. It was really, really obvious but I was blinded by the promise of television art every night before bed (and no, I do not mean porn, but I still respect you if that’s your vice of choice).
It happened on a day. This day was no different from any other day. I was sitting alone in my room, watching my computer screen with strained, reddened eyes, my irises reflecting the movements of the on-screen images that so mesmerized me.
I was watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, namely, the episode containing the musical, “The Nightman Cometh”. Now, I will defend myself once by saying that this entire episode is a piece of comedy genius, but that is really neither here nor there.
Now, if you haven’t seen the Nightman Cometh, in order to relate to my sad existence, I would suggest you watch it here:
This isn’t a suggestion. This is an order. A desperate order. Please watch.
Anyways, I was watching it and dancing along, as one often does whilst watching an inter-textual musical on a TV show. Like this:
I was laughing really hard. Like really, really hard. Like harder than an Indian guy at a Russell Peters show.
Suddenly, my euphoria was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” I asked, reluctantly pausing my video and fearing the inevitability of real social interaction.
“Elektra,” said one of my roommates, (name has been changed), coming into the room with the trepidation of a visitor to the ICU.
She glanced around my room, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Oh,” she said, “I thought there were other people in here… I heard laughing… Never mind.”
And she left.
She left me standing there, next to my computer, hands frozen above my head in a mid-clap position, shell-shocked.
It wasn’t until I took a step back from my life that I realized what I had become.
A junkie.
And I didn’t take it well.
Until I decided, you know what? TV is fuckin awesome. And there’s a little bit of Abed inside all of us. Each of us is an Abed, a meth dealer, a perpetually single food-addicted showrunner, and a Nightman who Comeths.
And I don’t think I’ll be changing any time soon.
And you can bet your ass that I’ll be tuning into Community on Thursday on NBC, and in the wise words of the now deceased Liz Lemon:
Wind Tunnel Days 