The past 24 hours have been regrettable on so many levels, one of which being that I woke up at the ungodly early hour of 7 (I typically don’t rise before noon) only to find that in last night’s compromised state I had fallen asleep with my head flat on my keys. That’s not great. I’m not even sure how that’s possible.
So what did I do at this impious hour of the morn? I tried to fall back asleep. Those of you who know me are aware that I can readily fall asleep almost at the drop of a hat. I’ve been known to pass out in classes, movie theaters (habitually), or even at the dinner table (this was a problem when I fell asleep during the second course of my friend’s graduation dinner). But for some reason, this morning sleep just was not – and is not – coming.
It was during this foggy hour – head reeling, stomach turning, eyes bloodshot from the unfamiliar morning light – that I turned to my old friend, Arrested Development, in hopes it would lull me gently back into the pillowy folds of sleep. As I’ve already established, this did not happen; something else, something infinitely more tragic and regrettable happened. I discovered I can’t watch Arrested Development anymore.
I’ve killed it. And it was quite possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. Discovering Arrested Development was like happening upon a secret group of best friends I never knew I had but who were mine and only mine. Nothing could come between us. They were always there when I needed them, waiting to make me laugh when I was having a bad day, or - as previously stated - soothing me into sleep when I needed to pass out. I mean, seriously, what other friend is that consistently there for you in a bind? (Other than a pet, which I am not allowed to have in my apartment.)
But now that my love affair with the Bluth family has been going on for years, and I’ve seen and re-seen every episode an embarrassing number of times (no, I won’t tell you how many), I find that I just can’t keep doing it anymore. It’s making me feel like I’m in a continuous cycle of humorous but demented depravity, and that’s not a good thing. And I feel bad turning my back on my old buddy, especially one that has given me so much: namely, someone to look up to and aspire to be like (Lucille Bluth), and monikers for my cats back in California (Buster and Lucille – I know, I did pick super names, thanks).
Granted, I have found new vices, new best friends – such as 30 Rock – but these Johnny-come-latelies will never replace or take away the beauty, the sheer brilliance, and phenomenal synergy which runs so abundantly in Arrested Development. Thus it makes me sad that while objectively I can still appreciate the miracle that is the show, I can no longer actively partake in it. And Arrested Development isn’t the first friend I’ve lost either – I also lost Clueless, the lunch specials from Thai Market, and the Bee Gees all from the same gluttonous overindulgence.
So I am issuing a warning. I must pace myself. As much as I love to passionately throw myself into things and embrace every inch of them, I must slow down. So I will be strictly moderating my 30 Rock intake from now on (if only that Alec Baldwin wasn’t such a gloriously wolf-like hunk), as well as perhaps my alcohol intake (even though I strive to live every day Like Lucille Bluth) to avoid more fates like sleeping on my keys or writing weird things on Kelly Rutherford’s IMDB message board as I did several days ago.
So what did I do at this impious hour of the morn? I tried to fall back asleep. Those of you who know me are aware that I can readily fall asleep almost at the drop of a hat. I’ve been known to pass out in classes, movie theaters (habitually), or even at the dinner table (this was a problem when I fell asleep during the second course of my friend’s graduation dinner). But for some reason, this morning sleep just was not – and is not – coming.
It was during this foggy hour – head reeling, stomach turning, eyes bloodshot from the unfamiliar morning light – that I turned to my old friend, Arrested Development, in hopes it would lull me gently back into the pillowy folds of sleep. As I’ve already established, this did not happen; something else, something infinitely more tragic and regrettable happened. I discovered I can’t watch Arrested Development anymore.
I’ve killed it. And it was quite possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. Discovering Arrested Development was like happening upon a secret group of best friends I never knew I had but who were mine and only mine. Nothing could come between us. They were always there when I needed them, waiting to make me laugh when I was having a bad day, or - as previously stated - soothing me into sleep when I needed to pass out. I mean, seriously, what other friend is that consistently there for you in a bind? (Other than a pet, which I am not allowed to have in my apartment.)
But now that my love affair with the Bluth family has been going on for years, and I’ve seen and re-seen every episode an embarrassing number of times (no, I won’t tell you how many), I find that I just can’t keep doing it anymore. It’s making me feel like I’m in a continuous cycle of humorous but demented depravity, and that’s not a good thing. And I feel bad turning my back on my old buddy, especially one that has given me so much: namely, someone to look up to and aspire to be like (Lucille Bluth), and monikers for my cats back in California (Buster and Lucille – I know, I did pick super names, thanks).
Granted, I have found new vices, new best friends – such as 30 Rock – but these Johnny-come-latelies will never replace or take away the beauty, the sheer brilliance, and phenomenal synergy which runs so abundantly in Arrested Development. Thus it makes me sad that while objectively I can still appreciate the miracle that is the show, I can no longer actively partake in it. And Arrested Development isn’t the first friend I’ve lost either – I also lost Clueless, the lunch specials from Thai Market, and the Bee Gees all from the same gluttonous overindulgence.
So I am issuing a warning. I must pace myself. As much as I love to passionately throw myself into things and embrace every inch of them, I must slow down. So I will be strictly moderating my 30 Rock intake from now on (if only that Alec Baldwin wasn’t such a gloriously wolf-like hunk), as well as perhaps my alcohol intake (even though I strive to live every day Like Lucille Bluth) to avoid more fates like sleeping on my keys or writing weird things on Kelly Rutherford’s IMDB message board as I did several days ago.
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