*Editor's note: Yes, I do look crazy in this picture. Why? Because that's how I feel on the inside when I watch Jeff Probst announce the next kooky challenge for immunity. Still.*
Although I have not had a television with cable for the last few years, my fascination with trashy reality television has only worsened.
There was something about watching Tila Tequila's Shot at Love (and part two...I'm not too ashamed to admit that I, too, wanted to know if she would find love the second time around) or the more recent Jersey Shore that makes me feel so intrigued. I spend the hour judging the actions of the participants on these shows (Ronnie! Don't punch him!), whilst I sit, covered in thousands of tiny, sharp pieces of skittles that missed my mouth and using my toe to move the mouse so I don't have to get up.
Chin-Hwa likes to make disparaging remarks about my television choices, as if his YouTube binges consisting of 80s and 90s hits are far superior (Toto? Really?), but even he can't quite look away in the middle of The Bachelor. I could say that I watched it to see the beautiful and familiar scenery of San Francisco, but really I just wanted to know if Ali would finally slap Vienna or not.
I've heard that people can make a living doing cultural studies. I want in on this mythical cash cow. I want to be featured on Bravo, analyzing the upcoming season of the Real Housewives of New Jersey. Maybe I'll even try out for the 50th season of Survivor and pretend to be the dumb blonde who later reveals that she has a Nobel prize...oh, I'm dreaming big, people. And it's all centered around t.v.
Until then, I'll waste far too much time gaping at others' life choices and pretending like I know enough about fashion to tell who's going to make it on America's Next Top Model or Project Runway.