I Get So Emotional Baby

When I'm standing in line at a coffee shop, drifting off to sleep, relaxing on a park bench, or just passing the time, I often contemplate the various mechanisms I've devised to cut my own head off with a chainsaw. Yes, I lead an unenviable existence. Fortunately, there are people – as wretched as my own reality is – I'm thankful that I'm not (i.e. Philip Schuth, Leonard Monfredo). Unfortunately, while anecdotal incidents of misery provide a fleeting pang of schadenfreude (a guilty pleasure at best), my gutted and desiccate neuropsychological condition demands a more potent salve. Enter Bobby Brown. I am alive today because of Being Bobby Brown. While reality-television (an oxymoron if ever there was one) may be in decline, Being Bobby Brown has carved out a one-of-a-kind niche all its' own, and I'm hooked on it like a crack baby on the titty of a crack whore. All I can think while I’m watching it is, "Christ almighty, I'm sooooo glad I'm not these people". No, I don’t have money or fame or a bunch of people to spend my time with. No, I'm not free to spend my days in relative leisure. But I'm also not a completely horrible person. And that – that right there – is all the personal affirmation I need to keep on going. So thank you Bobby Brown. Thank you.