If I listened to every advertisement hollering through the static of my cable-hooked television, I'd have a mammoth bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch sitting with the ego-quenching sheen of recommendation in my fridge, a Weight Watchers membership (it told me to join as soon as possible with the speed of a steroid-devouring treadmill), Children's Tylenol (despite being situationally barren), and a Bowflex-shaped elephant, ivory tusks slumping uselessly in the corner.
My living room would be the fraternal twin of the American Smithsonian, a faux-genuine quilt of our Founding Fathers' present day descendants draping over my popcorn ceiling.
I return to the latest sacred cow in the flea store cartel of Lifetime Movie heroines; it's "Vengeful Vixens Sunday" and Elizabeth Berkley shooting men and stabbing women in the back all while eating buckets of Ben and Jerry and getting addicted to crystal ****.
The dialogue is as freshly packaged and slovenly edible as the Minute Ready Late Night Dinner with a cartoon grandma plastered on the logo, all to remind you of down home, or in the case of this Lifetime screenplay, a time when the brain wasn't fully developed. Same difference.
We all hide our guilty pleasures as if our tolerance for the secondhand existence of these favorites were deemed malignant by a cardboard kingdom of young adult sophistication, but I ask you: who hasn't slipped into the comfort of a mind turned to mush?