morning thots: day one
Sara’s apartment is a writer’s dream. It’s all ceramic mugs, exposed brick wall, mismatched chairs, sweeping views of the city, and a 7-foot-tall bookcase painted “retro mint” filled entirely with Terry Pratchet’s life work.
I have been using my time here to watch the Real Housewives of New York. I feel (slightly) bad about polluting this cozy safe-haven with such putrid content (not bad enough to stop doing it, but bad enough to recognize that this is not an admirable choice. Like leaving gum under a chair.) It’s like driving a Model-T while bumping Kanye West — perfectly legal but also one of the most egregious things you could ever do.
Now, in case you are not familiar with season 2 of the Real Housewives of New York (or #RHONY as the true fans know it as), then that means you are already a much better person than I am. You probably eat vegetables every day and do good deeds. You probably never fall asleep with your makeup on or burn food in the microwave. Good for you. (Piece of shit)
Speaking of shit a brief intermission while I take care of some personal business.
Speaking of shit, part 2, I forgot to mention that I am at Sara’s apartment because I am watching her dog, Izzy. And let me tell you something, you don’t know jealousy until you and your IBS-having self have to bear witness to a creature with the most regulated bowel movements in the history of time.
So anyway, here I am. Drinking tea until my teeth turn that amber color that every girl dreams of. Ending my sentences with prepositions and what not. Grammar, be damned!
Okay back to #RHONY. What an absolute thrill it is to care about something so insignificant. I can, and have been, as easily entertained by watching the sands of time gather in the bottom of an hourglass. (Sara has a real-life hourglass, of course). So that should tell you a little something about the quality of the content I am consuming at such a voracious pace. To make a food analogy; if revered films such as The Godfather are like an eclair, then #RHONY is a twinkie that has been stepped on. If Casablanca is a creme brulee, then Rhony is a hospital pudding cup. But like Oscar the Grouch I just can’t get enough of this trash. (also like oscar the grouch, I have untamed eyebrows and a penchant for commiseration.)
The Rhony women are fascinating. I have never met another demographic of human beings in which nothing and everything matters at such extreme degrees; randomly and simultaneously. They are a welcome distraction to the pain and suffering of our current existence. The way I see it is, hey, someone has to be around for humanity’s extinction. It’s just unlucky that it’s us now. I bet it sucked for that last few generations of dinosaurs too. At least their destruction was not brought upon themselves BY THEMSELVES. But alas, that’s just how the cookie crumbles.
And if I am going to endure the unraveling of our species then I am at least going to try my best to enjoy it. Plus, if you think about it, nothing is a greater argument for the cessation of humanity than reality tv.
And that friends, concludes my morning thoughts. I am not sorry for wasting your time nor mine. As Simon from RHONY season 2 would say, chin chin!
with love of all things nonsensical,
Owen Wilson
