Monday, August 08, 2005

The Slow Death of My Sunday Nights (Fluffy Post)

I don't watch television regularly. I watch enough or know enough about what's on the tube to keep up with pop culture conversation. There is one exception. Sunday nights between 9 pm and 10 pm (EST) people know better than to call me or even speak to me. That hour is my guilty pleasure. That time belongs to Six Feet Under. Yes it is melodramatic and "weepie" as was written in today's New York Time (although I really resent the notion that only women and gay men are weepie. Um stereotype much Ms. Virginia Heffernan?). But I think that's part of the point for me. Sick or not, I can relate to many of the characters on the show, their experiences and the emotions those experiences bring forth. And I will admit, I have the only crush on the now dead character of Nate Fisher. He reminds me of way too many men that I have dated and fucked. Self-assured on the outside yet confused as all hell on the inside and using that confusion to fuck over people along the way, usually by fucking them. When Nate flatlined last week I wept and yelled, " that's what you get asshole," all in the same breath. Why should my relationships with fictional characters be any less complicated than my real relationships?

"All men that cheat should die," I announces dramatically last night while watching Nate's funeral.
"There would be no men left," my mother told me matter of factly.
I laughed when I realized how for me that would be true. My father and even my current partner would have to be struck down ( and I don't want that to happen).

The only thing getting struck down soon is the show. With only two episodes left, I wonder what my Sunday nights will look like. Maybe I'll do something productive, like read or write. Maybe I'll concentrate on the dysfunction within my own relationships instead of the dysfunction of fake people.


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