I’m a TV addict. Yes, I admit it, I like my television shows. I’m a television junkie. I will fare poorly without the dratted “box.”
I’m a bit of television snob too. Ask me about local programming and I’d come up with nothing; a big fat zero. I don’t like local TV. For the most part, I find it stupid and boring and dumbed down. Don’t get me started on the noontime trash that’s still on the air. I will never understand how a no-talent, ugly, and thicker-skinned-than-Tupperware misogynistic gnome can find success in local TV. If for that reason alone, I can easily boycott local programming.
Not that all that I watch are fantastic scholarly stuff. Hardly. I like to be entertained. My TV is on all day when I’m home except when I’m playing music or reading—the latter, I regrettably, hardly get to do much of these days. It’s on while I work, it’s on even when I’m not paying attention to it. The TV is the other person in the room.
Embarrassingly, I particularly like watching reality stuff. Some of them. I like some programs on Bio channel. Earlier, I caught an episode of Intervention. Normally, I try to stay away from this program. Even though it has been about a decade, some things are just too scary and too painful to revisit. True enough, the show brought up some painful memories. Like a roadside accident, it’s one of those things that you can’t help but watch. You want to find out what will happen next, good or bad. My family has dealt with addiction. I suppose you can say that, in a way, we still are; addiction, after all, is an illness without a cure. It is a lifelong condition.
As for my own personal guilty pleasure of the idiot box, I suppose it’s not so bad. When it gets to the point where I’d rather veg out in front of it than go for a run or I resemble the folks on Heavy, then I know it’s time for my own intervention. So far, I think I’m good.