The other day, I was walking down Larchmont, and, low and behold, I passed by a small group of young hipster-looking men and women with cameras and microphones huddled around a girl with caked on makeup who was talking about “how different someone is when the cameras are around.” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and move onward in order to get lunch in time.
I can say without hesitation that reality television shows are stupid. I can also say with confidence that I love watching them. The Bachelor is back on this month, and I couldn’t be more excited. For some unknown sociopathic reason, I love watching a bunch of girls fight over a single guy. And visa versa (hence the spinoff, The Bachelorette). I unknowingly almost stapled the Bachelor bracket to one of my essays. That would have been embarrassing.
I can’t really pinpoint exactly why I enjoy watching a Long Island medium talking to people about their dead relatives or some twenty-somethings pulling alligators out of Florida waters. I don’t even really consider it entertainment because I’m mostly bored while watching these shows, but I guess they activate my empathy nodes (is that a thing? I just made it a thing).
So, while I can freely admit that the above shows are vapid and inane, I can’t help but watch them as my guilty pleasures. Because there’s almost nothing better than watching a girl mistake a pomegranate for an onion. Since they both clearly grow on trees.