My life hit a tragic moment yesterday; I finished my favorite TV show.
I always fall for these shows that were cancelled too soon and therefor am inevitably heartbroken. Like the time I finished watching all of Arrested Development and wondered how I would live without seeing George Micheal's life develop any further. Now, there is no more episodes of Twin Peaks left for me, no more Billy Briggs and Shelly Johnson, no more Donna and James drama, most depressingly no more Agent Dale Cooper. The problem with fiction, whether it be TV or a book, is that it ends because it can't last forever. I hit this same emotion every time I finish a really good book and realize I can't go back to that world because it doesn't exist. This seems dramatic; I know. But don't you remember when you were reading The Great Gatsby and then it ended and you still wanted to talk to Nick just a little longer. Or when Lord of the Flies is over and nothing quite felt resolved. We get caught up in these wonderful worlds of optimal whit, romance, intrigue or whatever we seek but then have to remember that reality isn't that way. Boo.
Sam's coming this weekend, so I think I'll survive my withdrawal from Twin Peaks.
Have a good couple of days, smiles, Morgen.


