But now the fun has been taken out of the equation because I know exactly how I will die. I will leave this earth imbedded into my couch, unwashed and drunk on tea and M&Ms, in a Bravo T.V. induced coma.
My family will hold an intervention. My parents may even come over from Australia for it. They will crowd around me trying to convince me to relinquish the remote control, to leave the couch, to wash. I will growl like an angry old bichon bitch whose prised bone is under threat.
Many attempts will be made by professionals to remove me from the T.V room but I will refuse, hissing like a rabid racoon, insisting I stay and see what the next instalment of Botched has in store for me; “Oh my god! Look at those lips? And she wants them bigger? What is wrong with these people?” I’ll gush. “I’ll never have surgery. Never.”
I’ll sit with bated breath, desperate to see if Vicki and Tamra remain friends in the next season of The Real House Wives of Orange County. Or perhaps I’ll again ponder at whether Heather knows she is a heartless bitch or if Erica Jayne of the Beverly Hills Housewives knows she is really just a house wife with far too much money who makes hobby soft porn/music videos. I’ll grow jealous of Lisa Vanderpump’s pet swans and then spend hours trying to purchase myself a swan off eBay in an attempt to prove that I too am worthy of a pet swan.
There will be bed sores. My flesh will omit an odour of cabbage soup and my hair will fall out in clumps. But I will be happy, my mind numbed and sedated, and I will mutter at regular intervals one single sentence: “Thank god I’m not as stupid as these people. Thank god.”
But the saddest part of all will be that I will tell myself I am doing it all in the name of research. “I’m collecting data!” I’ll snap at my husband when he ventures in with a gas mask strapped to his face to protect him from my noxious fumes. “I am writing a novel about reality T.V!” I’ll lie. But I won’t know I’m lying anymore. The poisonous frequencies that carry Bravo into my home via wifi will have penetrated my brain.
But I won’t be the only one. There will be others like me, confined to their couches, slowly rotting. When I finally realise that this was their plan all along, that Bravo was created by the CIA to reduce the human race to unkempt zombies, to make them live vicariously through mind numbed, wealth addicted morons, it will be too late. I’ll be dead and the world will never know the truth. Until they too fall victim to the virus.
A few lucky ones will survive and they will live to tell the story.
Of how Bravo T.V destroyed the world.