D.A.R.E Was Right, I Have No Bones

     Reality television is the active ingredient to a rotting brain.  Gravity drags me down from the seat of the Lazy Boy, as my knees buckle I lay half on the floor, my head wedged between the back of the chair and the seat.  As I half lay here, allowing scholiosis to slowly deteriorate my spine, I can only help but to wonder why Kimmy K. got her hair and make-up all "did up" before she plunged into this superficial sob saga concerning her grief in the absence of her late father.  

     

    People have always said that it's video games that rot the brain, but I firmly contest this argument.  My puzzle of trap doors and gunfights promotes ten times more gigs of brain activity than being glued to the latest episode of Jersey Shore "Snookie's Snatch for Sale or Rent." It's not that these hours of gossip television don't have their place, it's just that the place for them is between eight and twelve on a friday night, a mausoleum of blackballed television series.  I think to myself that surely if there wasn't a market for these shows they wouldn't exist, and naturally my mind wonders whom the soulless characters are that keep these shows on air. 

   

     Kourtney Kardashian is complaining about the lack of intimacy between herself and her "baby daddy"as I droop further, melting into the wood floors of my parents' living room, sticking like spilled pepsi.  I look around myself wondering where the remote could be, maybe I can guide through the channels and find something more compelling.  I don't initially see it and lose all ambition.  

     

    Maybe it's that people have completely ceased living their own lives and that's where the derived interest in "reality" television comes from.  It's so awful, but it isn't every day that I go out to the bar and lure a "grenade" back to my apartment, so I suppose there is some sort of contaminating and addicting flavor to this genre that sucks me in.  

   As I finally drop all the way to a horizontal postion, pressed against the floor, I see that the remote has sunk beneath the chair.  I scratch and reach for it until I can finally lay a finger on it and drag it out. I turn the t.v. off and look outside.