I don’t.
Really. I don’t.
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| Ah. The good old days... |
I can’t. It is physically and emotionally impossible for me to hate Glee. Why? Because despite all my personality, my education, my assertions of my own epic awesomeness, at my core, there is a 13 year old teenybopper with braces and pigtails who has plastered her dark corner of my insides with ‘NSYNC posters and scattered volumes of Roswell fan fiction.
While this is something I’ve had to come to terms with (or hide from my love ones, not unlike someone who heavily self-medicates), it doesn’t help that her next door neighbor is a nerdy, quasi-hipster kid, who goes on long tirades about how Mad Men is all flash and no substance and Firefly is a manifesto by which everyone should live their lives.
So, on Valentine’s night, in the spirit of the hoards of the lonely and desperate who do things they know they’ll regret in the morning, I decided to go back on the promise I made to myself only one month ago:
I was going to catch up on Glee.
