Here's the message. The ideal. We need more time away from Genoa City.
Our bleary eyes need it. Our unkempt homes need it. Our clenched colons need
time to reshape.
Of course you agree. You love the idea. Like any good Genoa City voyeur
you've had the watch ethic pounded into your brain since you were knee-high
to a fetus, when your mother ordered you to turn the TV off and get busy
and, you know, experience reality.
We need more time away. Extended breaks. March Madness, Easter egg hunting,
gobs of time during which to feel human. To feel happy. When's the last time
you saw an unhappy cat? Exactly.
You, with your pathetic one or two weeks off per year, your turning on the
TV each weekday at the same time and your desperate need to be defined by
what the residents of Genoa City are doing. Cats don't care what's happening
there. Dog don't either. They'd rather sit and look at you looking at the
tube and wondering what the hell is wrong with these humans? Why do they
neglect everything that's important in favor of watching Kevin Fisher win
the lottery or rich men and woman fighting over fancy jobs they do not need?
And they are so right, these animals.
No wonder we're on Prozac. No wonder the closets are full of junk. No wonder
the walls need painting, the trash emptied, the weeds pulled. No wonder we
know next to nothing of ourselves. No wonder TV is our only connection to
the outside world. We never get to spend any length of time there.
Our priorities are screwed. Everyone wants more time away, yet we feel
guilty. How dare we take time off? How dare we miss Nikki Newman's latest
fling? What are you, a soap opera freak? TV is the great escape and
sometimes necessary but too much of it is dangerous and nothing will suck
your soul dry like excess adoptee whining that they aren't part of the
Winters family.
Nothing will twist your stomach into knots like watching the angry rich with
their shiny expensive goodies and all the excessive everything, the newest
SUVs with On Star and the finest jewelry, complaining how life so sucks.
We are such a noble bunch, dying our slow and TV-lit deaths with pride.
Wondering why we can't be desperately oversexed and humorless and badly
dressed or have scars on our face and babies at 50/50 risk of dying and
racking up medical bills we'll never see.
Wondering why we can't be college students with time to spare for brief
stints as rock stars, can't be junior private investigators on the side,
can't win the Lotto, can't get pass Newman Ponderosa security to peek into
the windows, can't by-pass airport security whenever we feel like jetting
away to exotic places on corporate jets, can't find that missing family
member, can't charge expensive lattes to our brother's tab, can't afford
memberships at the all inclusive restaurant/gym/motel. Can't call granny to
get an emergency head shrinking, can't teach poor Indian kids how to speak
English, can't attend the monthly ball or get backstage passes to the Smokey
Robinson concert, can't go on book signing tours or have the mausoleum remodeled,
can't stash our so desperately wanted all our lives children with the
grandparents or suddenly remember the five-year-old we shot to death 45
years ago.
We are such fools. Why do we follow their lead? Why are we so interested in
the sadness and despair? Why do we watch slumped in the Laz-E-Boy when we
could be getting some sleep or out of town? Why do we know more about Genoa
City than our own communities?
We should all have a month off increased by one week for each year spent
watching the people and events in Genoa City. Think of what you could do.
Paint the house. Write that book. Rethink your life. You know, do something
meaningful.
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