No, really I am. I think better, sleep better and I can see the entirety of my brain through solidly fluid thoughts.
I watched a lot of crap when it was handed to me without constraint. After I quit the deathly hallows of corporate America — I transitioned into my calling of being a full time writer.
I spent a considerable amount of time on the couch — with my laptop basking in the noisy support of my television.
Sex and the City during the day and then once the nights descended I caroused with the worst of them.
The Real Housewives had me on lock. It was easy to submit to the crap filled hour because it was all in fun. I made myself believe that I wasn’t really internalizing the vapid arguments and scripted altercations.
This was my way to eat my cake and have it too. Work on my mandated pieces and cautiously pay attention to the screaming middle aged women in the background.
Besides, I was only submitting myself to The Housewives. Nothing else.
Wrong. Like everything in life — you take a sip and then it becomes a quick gulp and of course there is nothing else to do but drown in it.
I started drowning until my lungs created a floating device.
I craved more bullshit TV — and boy, did I find it!
Housewives turned into Vanderpump Rules and then I slid into the disgustingly ratchet lineup over at VH1.
My head was swirling with the increasing seduction of watching desperate people perform desperately pathetic actions for no good reason other than to be recognized for it.
My bottle of wine turned to bottles as I became immersed in the sibling wars of The Braxtons and demolished by the antics of Hollywood Divas or was it Hollywood Exes?
Suddenly my brain was reeking of utter garbage dumped from the senseless images of The Kardashians on mute — as if that was a reasonable way to atone for my self-designated illness.
I was flatlining under the direction of The Black Ink crew while also remarkably keeping tabs on Mob Wives and the Basketball Wives — because, you know, they needed a guardian angel to keep them from being punched the fuck out.
Jesus! What was happening to me? I was living a lie and barely living. Or writing or even fucking.
I had pledged allegiance to people I couldn’t even stand under the guise that they were not affecting me at all — when in reality — their fake posturing was destroying everything about me.
I was too clogged up to progressively grow as a human being or writer. I was completely lost to a world that was set up to make me fail.
How do you rescue your soul from such filth without being drenched in the showers of withdrawal?
You quit cold turkey. Not because you want to but because you have to.
In late 2015 I moved to Los Angeles and found myself navigating unfamiliar but refreshing territory.
No television. I was forced to apply myself creatively and this process had to be devoid of mind-altering supplements.
This feat was effortlessly executed because unlike before I had no choice. Not being able to effortlessly glide from one mind-numbing substance to another is awesome because you’re challenged with the glory of just making do.
It took me about a month to gratifyingly realize that I hadn’t watched any reality TV shows — and what was even more exceptional was the fact I didn’t miss it.
I became a brilliant wordsmith and fortune teller after dumping the destructive habit of watching nothingness turn into the next level that can’t even be described. Because there are no words.
The only words I could come up with when I was a reality television junkie were the kinds that are erected to inspire — but only end up eliciting delicious mockery among readers who can tell you’re full of it.
I’m no longer striving to prove that I can construct a sentence long enough or neatly short enough to touch the deepest core of you.
I am there. There is no interference and no late night runs to the liquor store to refuel for the next batch of cloudy coated gems.
These days I take my queue from grand productions of storytelling that aim to advance my need for perfection.
My appetite is precisely honed in on the sort of entertainment that leaves you with a feeling of accomplishment that can’t be matched.
The bickering, the fighting and the shattered glasses may seem elementary but your active neurons seamlessly absorb and attack your already static disposition.
Nothing good comes out of that kind of exposure, and for me — it was a health crisis.
I simply couldn’t think. I had caught the virus. But thankfully you can rewrite your ending. But, first comes the valiant rescue and surrender.
I still don’t have a TV but thanks to streaming options, I’m able to dutifully accommodate intelligently devised shows that enhance my capacity for authenticity and creative freedom.
I’m now back to writing for the better and I don’t see myself reverting. Unless Kim Kardashian West announces that her newborn son has a different father and if that’s the case — I’m not afraid to bite.
I can turn that into a coherent offering that will unexpectedly resonate.
After all, I’m practically a genius now.