Like many in our entertainment-addled society, I watch reality TV on occasion. I wanted to say I’m “fond” of certain series, but that’s not the appropriate word to describe my feelings toward them. They’re like junk food—irresistible, empty, always disappointing, yet always leaving me wanting more. Maybe next time the loose ends will be tied. Maybe next season.
As cast members transition from a regular life into the life of a D-list celebrity, their appearance morphs into the uncanny valley of eternal youth, or rather, the eternal chase thereof. Are we meant to envy that? To want that for ourselves? It looks painful, actually, like an overly tuned drumhead that could rip at any moment. Nobody could mistake that for the appearance of a young person.
But that’s not the most pitiable thing. What’s sad is knowing that these people have chosen to work in an environment of pure toxicity, and their job is to exude as much bile as possible, to hurl it at their colleagues and let it rain down on them. They pollute the world around them, all glitter and gloom, poisoning themselves for the audience. It’s the ultimate sacrifice: they never get to go home and unwind after work, because home is also work. Their bed at night. Their innermost thoughts. It’s all on display for the cameras. They entertain for a living; they live to entertain.
Meanwhile, I’m watching it all unfold, consuming bits of that poison like flakes of fish food, idly waiting for a dénouement that will never come. Who knows, maybe next season.