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  • Writer's pictureHannah Pearson

Televisionally Frustrated

Sitting Down. Tuning In. Not Getting Off.


Spoilers For: Nothing

Are you tired after a long week of hard work? Do you just want to come home and slip on something a little more comfortable? Are you looking for that special someone to give you the ultimate pleasure?

Come here baby and let me whisper my wildest fantasy…


Ooo even closer…..

My kink is sitting braless on my couch with a messy bun, covered in chip dust, and binging till my eyeballs bleed a captivating story told in micro-bites of episodic ecstasy.

Take me away. Give me that crime-drama role-play. Dip me in reality TV secret shame. Throw me in the passions and intimacy of a slice-of-life dramedy.

But lately, when the day is done, work is on pause, my daughter a snooze in her bed, and I can finally indulge in my vice, I sit there and feel nothing. My eyes glaze over, the actors' words flow through one ear and out the other, and I’m left unsatisfied. Sure, I have hit lulls of enthusiasm for TV watching, but this drought seems unshakable. It’s been a month and nothing I turn on is turning me on.

Here’s a list of the things I’ve tried to pull me out of this funk.

A Long-Anticipated Show

Usually, these valleys happen when I’m in-between shows. My body is still reeling from the last obsession and the dopamine factory needs a break. But it all kicks back up the full speed when something I have been waiting for comes out.

I have been an ultra-fan of everything Pamela Adlon since I spent Saturday mornings watching my soul-sister Spinelli on Recess kick ass and take names. From Californication to Louie and now my parenting guidebook Better Things. The show is on its last season and it has been a source of feminist inspiration in both how to raise a daughter in this crazy world and also how to navigate a career in a boy’s club industry. I watched two episodes recently and none of the auteur-style magic that Adlon brings is lost. The wardrobe. The music choice. The snapshots of seemingly randomness showcase authentic sincerity.

And I feel nothing.

I want to tell Pamela it’s not her, it’s me.

A Nostalgic Time-Trip

Change is hard. Mostly because so much of it seems out of our control and it can send us longing for yesterday. Maybe I’ve just been overwhelmed with the violent stream of newness and what my body is craving is something comforting and familiar. Exhausted with my tried-and-trues, I decided to rummage around the retro rotation for a forgotten favorite. The Drew Carey Show was the perfect 90’s sitcom. An everyman main character, a will-they-won’t-they with a much hotter best friend, and jokes that would break the internet if they aired today. God, I love it. Drew and Mimi’s biting insult comedy walked so Veep’s could run. It’s a hard find because the show used so much popular music and copyright laws has everyone looking for a payday. I watched a few clips on YouTube, the Rocky Horror/Priscilla mash-up is a particular gem, but only got a half chub.

Sigh, usually a man in thick-rimmed glasses is enough for me.

Pure Brain Novocain

Whenever I can pause my brain on the lowest setting while watching TV then I am sure to get mine. Reality TV is my cheap thrill, guaranteed to please. I love vapid hot people exposing their worst flaws like sexy gladiators fighting to the death by cringe. Love is Blind S2 did the job it promised and the Busey Memes were Chef’s Kiss. I thought the latest lab experiment, The Ultimatum, would keep the energy flowing but I didn’t even want to hit play.

Take that orgy of desperate desire for validation somewhere else, I’m not participating.

All The Rage

Wanna talk TV? Catch me outside… because I fucking love talking about television. I try to always at least sample the hottest show so that no one takes their spoiler-laced conversation to the other room. Want to tell me your shock about the killer being so-so because I want to give you a full dissertation on their character development over the season’s arc. But what’s hot these days is not making me hot. Euphoria makes me feel old and not sexy. Inventing Anna was a Shonda Rhimes paint by numbers, and I didn’t like season 1 of Bridgerton (please don’t disown me).

Whatever is all the rage is not giving me a raging hard-on button.

Maybe I’m broken? Or maybe one day the magic and energy will come back to me and fill me with the desire of a spry twenty-year-old indulging in all-night watchfest of a Game of Thrones marathon?

In the meantime, I’m going to go easy on myself. Hopefully, I’m not giving myself blue (eye)balls, and trust that when the mood strikes again then I’ll get my sweet release.

Any Recommendations to Reawaken My Passions?

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