A month ago I was normal, and (looking back on it) I was probably happier than I realized at the time. I lived in a world that was mine, every day of the week; Monday to Sunday I was the monarch of my existence. Four weeks ago, though, my soul was invaded and a day has been stolen. Wednesdays are no longer mine to live and love; Wednesdays are now the property of ‘The O.C.’I don’t really know how it happened. It’s all a blur now. I’d heard of ‘The O.C.’ from my friends and girlfriend. I’d written it off as just another melodramatic prime time glimpse into the world of over-privileged, white suburbanites. These types of shows had come and gone before, and I’d ignored them and been perfectly happy (I went all through high school without seeing a single episode of ‘Dawson’s Creek.’ Who the hell is Pacey?). I mean, I am an over-privileged white suburbanite; what can Fox really teach me about me?
Somehow, though, I got worn down. All through first semester, my good friend would spend Wednesday nights from nine to ten glued to his TV, waiting to see how the beautiful inhabitants of Newport would maneuver the obstacles that Fate placed in their way. I was always invited, but declined, politely. Then, one night, I thought, “What the hell? I’m not driving,” and I sat down as Phantom Planet provided the theme music.
What can I say but that my will was not my own. The sky is so sunny, the cars are so shiny, and the people are all so attractive. Even the moms. Even the old, evil, cold-hearted millionaire looks good, in a sort of James Bond villain, “tie you down and lazer your crotch” sort of way. And the hair styles! I yearn for my own personal stylist to guide me through my day, sculpt each strand. I was hooked and smitten; it was like a junior high dance with the most beautiful, developed girl in the class.
So now I wake up on a Wednesday morning, and the first words I say, eyes half-closed, minty-fresh foam dribbling down my chin, are, “Is it a new ‘O.C.’ tonight?” Throughout the afternoon, I wonder how the Luke-Marissa-Marissa’s hot mom love triangle is going to be resolved in a Euclidian sense. I rush eagerly to the TV screen at nine o’clock and sit in silence, like a pilgrim before a candle-lit altar.
I mean, what the fuck is wrong with me?
But I know you’re out there. There are others. You’re like me, and so much more. You are California dreamers in the closet. Or perhaps you celebrate it all, proclaim yourself a fan and buy the soundtrack. I salute and embrace you all; pathetic, happy and beautiful.
And so, I ask you: Did you see ‘The O.C.’ this week?
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