I hate you. I hate how you are on most of the time. I hate how the house feels empty when you are off. I hate your constant flicker of blue light and your silly laugh tracks. I hate how you play the same crummy shows over and over and over and over again. I hate your stupid commercials. I hate how you are the surest way to bring people together. I hate that I would be really sad to lose New Girl and Modern Family and a window into athletic prowess and Anthony Bourdain and I hate that I no longer hold you in complete disdain.
I would like to smash you, right in the middle. Swing a bat to you, with a handy plastic sheet underneath to tidily catch the debris a la Dexter. I would hate to lose Dexter. But the space on our wall would be open, ready to paint or hold pictures or pullup bars, as a wall should be. I would love to shrug off my inhibitions and make my intentions reality. But, it is something I must accept for A. He accepts my lack of organization and cleanliness. Give and take.
But know this TV: you are not liked. You are not welcome. You are a thorn in my side and a stone in my foot. You try to win me over with your wily ways, those peeks at the world’s wonders on National Geographic and the Discovery Channel, those glimpses of athletic grace with football, hockey, baseball, and the ever-impressive Olympic Games. Sometimes you even act as a fire would, something to watch as we gather on the couch. I’d prefer the fire, but, again, I’ll allow it.
I will never be yours,