There's a television in my house. It stares at the upholstered loveseat sofa and the sofa stares back. It's on now and again for the increasingly frequent movie night (alaskan winter recreation), or for a football game, or occasional channel-surfing and things of that nature. It wouldn't be a novel theory to postulate that most programs the tele has to offer include varieties of sexual inuendo (everything), mixed with fraternity homoeroticism (see: MTV), and un-real life slices of brash interlude (commercials)... though it may be a true one.
Okay, that being said, I'm beginning to wonder why it's not working. All this anvilled quasi-colloquial bullshit geared toward my desire to want(!) and to need(!) any variety of things... should at least occasionally function for its set course. Back to that bit on sexual inuendo and the gross marketing by babes and the like. I can't remember the last time any tele knocked my socks off with some delicious prototype of the female form. And quite frankly it doesn't bother me. What does is the rest of the male populace going gaga over airbrushed toehead wonderwoman flashing a new cellphone ring-tone or the dimwit seduction of a Shania Twain applying a nice, thick layer of Revlon on her mug.
My life has always been heading toward quiet solipsism. Certain things reinforce and complement that aim. And the antidote to this dross is the simple pitch to infatuation and hopefully healthy possession with an unfeigned, gospel being. And that's where i'm going cos real love is sharing a good book with someone that you want to ravage, or a dynamite record, or an opinion on something inessential... yet just that.
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