You don't love me; you love the tip of the iceberg that is your idea of me; the sugar-coated mute leading herds of unfinished sentences down the copious hills of his insecurity; the nice little writer whose constant attempts at legendary one-liners are as hit-or-miss as a sitcom still airing far past its prime.
I possess three biomes, or, rather, three networks of personalities and identities. I am much more than the Jack Macfarland archetype lip-syncing to Cher in the one gay bar in town, tyrannically governing your wardrobe, possessing a razor-sharp wit cast toward the backs of his community in the form of an outdated punchline- my work on that show lost its Willful relevance and Graceful naivete years ago.
I am of the generation fed media saturation three four-hour meals a day, who ingested cardboard cadavers as if they were mother's milk and internally mutated their thoughts and desires to fit the compact time frame of 30 minutes to settle the series' worth of traumas and neuroses while making it home for dinner to stay tuned for what's next in the lineup.
Speaking as a casualty of this inevitable chain of events, I regretfully declare that even those who have seen every episode of myself for the past six seasons are still light years away from the room full of faces unencumbered by euphemism.