1/29/2009 - The Cheesiest

For lunch today I had a quesadilla. Cheez-its were my midday snack. And for dinner? Thick n' creamy macaroni and cheese. I whole-heartedly fear that there may be something seriously defective with my inner wirings. 

And it's in my head, too, these serious defects. In a fit of laziness I stayed laying on the couch after The Office and 30Rock (re-runs; suck it, NBC) and watched Private Practice. I will hand it to you that these night-time soaps are engaging - if not down-right addictive - but you will never catch me saying that they are written with any great degree of skill or integrity. That said, I get particularly harried when I find myself really feelin' a monologue; like, if I weren't being a lazy couch-bum I would be nodding my head vigorously, if not standing up and pumping my fist. 

It makes me question my very being. Here I am groovin' on how much holier I am than this lousy nighttime drama stuff, and then I find myself really going along with it. I don't know how I'm supposed to maintain my lofty and emotionally shut-off position when hit prime-time television shows keep speaking to my soul.

I struggle with this. In the aftermath of a middle and high school career marked most prominently by moody journaling, I live with a complex about my emotions. I question what I really have the right to be feeling and what I'm trumping up to the cataclysmic levels of Grey's Anatomy (where everybody cries about everything, all the time, no matter what); I wonder whether what I feel is good and true emotion or just me searching for attention. 

Sometimes I comfort myself by thinking about The Cosby Show. The one where the wife (what's her name?) finally goes off about how a woman has emotions and she can express those emotions however she wants and whenever she wants because no matter what, they're inside her somewhere and she's feeling them, which means they're legitimate. This comes at the climax of the show, once she's had her fill of all the male characters ragging on her about how she's moody because of her lady-times. 

I want that confidence; it seems like it would do me well. Even if I was moody and weepy and the sort, at least I wouldn't feel bad about it. At least the feeling of emotion at all wouldn't wear me down. But then, I figure (if for no other reason than to wrap this up neatly), that's what I've got the cheese for: to cushion the wiring.