I don’t really have much time today. My throat is sore, I have, as they say on the East Coast, a wicked bad headache, and then there’s all that muttering the TV is doing.
“There ya go, sickie. Grab the remote and turn me on. Ohhhhh, yeaaaaaaah.”
It’s an older model, and frankly, kind of a pervert.
Why does it torture me so? What did I ever do but watch it, dust it, and yes, even love it? Why am I such a sucker for this nasty little appliance? Why? Why, when it offers me so very little in return?
Maybe the TV isn’t entirely at fault. Maybe it’s me and my utter lack of taste. Because it’s not like I’m watching the finer shows. I’m not watching Masterpiece Theater or even the History Channel, for cryin’ out loud.
Don’t you go trying to teach me, dammit! Oh, no. I’m watching I Love the 80s. Cops. Political commercials.
You know. Garbage.
When the TV is on, I lose my ability to hear others. I lose my peripheral vision. I have proof that I lose my sense of taste (I will not horrify you with the list of take-out foods that I have shoved in my face while watching TV) and there may even be evidence of a loss of smell, but honestly those stories are even worse than those corroborating my loss of taste.
I don’t believe this is a congenital condition. That is, my grandmother would have never done this. My mother? My sister? I doubt that they get sucked into the TV. They’re not the types.
So why am I so special?
I’ve got to run. What Not to Wear is on, and I’ve only seen this one once.
A Meeting in the Meeting
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