I watched 8 hours of America’s Next Top Model yesterday.  I feel bad about myself, but actually I feel great about myself.  Because I so deeply out-specimen those tender-headed hustles of humanity.  From the vantage inside my eyes it makes perfect sense.  It doesn’t feel wrong, it feels like a warm homing of self-worth.  And it makes me a comparative shopper at the well of well-being.  Willing to be just a less bruised lemon.

            I don’t think superiority works.  Equivalence isn’t exactly a measure.  That’s why a part of you feels dirty even though it’s clear shame lives for the other side of the screen.  Truth is, that intellectual deadweight?  Has accomplished more than I ever have: for all her love of TV, she has gotten herself the fuck on it.  What do I love, have I laid my flickering image on it?

            Reality TV is the cheeseburger of psychic fixes.  A step back really, for the way it so readily invites distillation of us and them.  I couldn’t promise to acquit myself anymore amiably, if a TV camera were to cling to my everyday epiphanies.  But I wouldn’t go on TV, because I know better.