I’m not sure which day god created reality television, but I have a feeling it was after the seventh, created almost as a joke, for those who didn’t find enough joy in her first 6 days of creation and that seventh dedicated to rest. On the eighth day, she created reality television for the greedy, to remind all those watching that someone else is always watching. Always taking notes of your movements. Always learning some small (or immeasurably large) lesson. And sometimes they are recording.
I just finished watching Dexter, my favorite show on television, a show that I enjoy every second watching, even enjoy re-watching, finding the first kind of joy as I did the first viewing. Promptly upon turning off the dvr (I’m at a buddies house watching his pooch, I have no television of my own) a commercial flickered on VH1. A commercial for Sex Addiction with Dr. Drew. A commercial starting and ending with my face. Almost immediately, all the frozen yogurt I had just consumed began to approach my mouth from the opposite direction. It’s really going to happen. That insane dream I had just about six months ago, that crazy dream of participating in a reality television show about sex addiction that started the exact same day as this, my first run at sobriety, was no dream. It was reality. Reality television. And it’s going to be aired in less than a month. And they are playing fucking commercials.
I went to see Zombieland today at the Chinese Theatre, and there is nothing more real than sitting in a theatre that is actually in the movie you are watching. As we walked out of the joint, I couldn’t help but look at the streets, look down that long and tourist filled Hollywood Blvd, terrified that at any moment a zombie would come rushing from the crowd to eat my delicious human flesh. And what delicious human flesh I have to be eaten. I couldn’t help but feel like a carnival is the last place I would want to be if the world was taken over by Zombies. Of course they like bright lights. Of course they will enjoy carnival music. And of course there will come a point where I am chased into a funhouse, and wouldn’t be able to decipher the jumpy outies of the funhouse from scary zombies jumping out of nooks and crannies to eat me.
I also woke up in the middle of the night with a strange sensation in my right thumb. I had no idea how much I use that thing, my thumb, and thought perhaps it is a splinter, an invisible splinter lodged deep in my fingerprints, and best extracted by a large fire cleaned needle. So during a midnight pee last night, I took a needle, burned it with a lighter, pants around my ankles, and tried my best to get whatever it is out of my finger. I woke up this morning and my finger was even more sore. In fact, I quickly went from sore finger with deeply lodged splinter, to incurable infection of the upper thumb, to gangrene of the thumb to cancer of the thumb which must be immediately removed. And then I thought of which doctor to call, which doctor is going to understand the serious nature of this medical emergency, and I realized the only doctor I’ve seen in the past 8 years is a porno doctor that I go see whenever something is terribly or moderately wrong downstairs, and at no point does he ever really check anything out, I just go in and say “this is wrong, and I need this to fix it.” His eyebrows would certainly raise if I were to go in and request that he remove my thumb, especially after my last request was for diflucan, a porngirls favorite Monistat. So mid morning I took to my thumb again with the cleansed needle and cleansed tweezers, my professional doctor tools, and found myself thinking perhaps I should have been a doctor instead of a pornstar, or artist or writer, or producer or director, and perhaps a job in the medical field is most fitting because I am in the process of curing my cancerous thumb gangrene with a clean needle and tweezers and it starts to hurt again so I put some neosporin pain on it and I’m fine, the good doctor Ketcham.
So I’m walking away from the Chinese theatre with a bum thumb when I receive a text reminding me that the commercials would be airing soon. And I thanked god I don’t have a tv, because I am in no mood to watch myself, or any other person on the show, and the memory of Zombies on Hollywood blvd reignites and I’m worrying about fighting zombies off with my bum thumb and know that they will enjoy it whether or not it is cancerous, and they will eat my flesh whether or not the porno doctor fulfills my wishes and cuts off my thumb and no amount of my worrying is going to stop these commercials from airing, and no matter what I do, this show, this dreamfantasyland show is going to air, and I will be a zombie too one day, and get bitten just like everybody else and nothing will matter because the lights at the carnival are so bright and the music is so loud, so it’s best to just ride the rides and worry about the end when it’s time to get off.
I’ve designated an hour a day where I can worry myself silly. The hours vary throughout the day, and this entry happened to be in the middle of it. Time to bring the worrying to a close, smoke a cigarette and go to bed. Enough illogical worrying for one day.