Where there's no drama, there's no story. Network television is getting prepared for February Sweeps, when everything maniacal and tragic and suspenseful and monumental is written into the tenth-edition scripts. Phoebe is getting married to the guy from Clueless. Regis wants you trying to be a millionaire again. The old vixen from Sex and the City has cancer. ER decided to show you a boob (though those plans are nixed now that "I'm sorry" Ms. Jackson beat NBC to the punch).
It's an effort to attract viewers. People want to see the ends of the dramatic spectrum. We're not interested in the middle, which in actuality makes up 90% of the time for 90% of us. The big suits upstairs fear that we'll grow tired of a flat storyline. Gradual life evolutions don't get ratings, so execs feel compelled to deliver sharp turns and big bangs into their characters' lives.
We've all heard the cliche variety is the spice of life, but what that implies is that all the drama, all the variety... it's just a miniscule coating on a much greater, much more important mass. All the spice in the world can't cover up a poor piece of meat. And accordingly, some of the most splendid pieces of meat need little spice to make them special.
My life is currently, though surely temporarily, absent of drama. Grad school applications have been sent, I'm taking a light courseload, and now I have a rare opportunity to just relax and enjoy my life. I practice my trumpet, play Madden 2004, drink Yuengling, work out, listen to music, and go to usual hangouts with my friends. There's not much to write about, but no matter. My life is good, and for now that'll have to be enough.
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