I'm mostly tired.

All of the time. Sleepy, sleepy, sleepy. I ingest caffeine like it's water; I sleep in and go to bed early. In other words, I try.

Still ... tired.

Which is my only reasoning behind sleeping through much of this week's So You Think You Can Dance. I made it to about 9 p.m. for the performance show before passing out, and only made it halfway through the results show. We caught up the next night, but it wasn't the same; it was missing that elusive electricity of a somewhat live broadcast happening right before your disbelieving eyes. I didn't feel the same sisterhood with hundreds of thousands of squealing thirteen-year-old girls across the country, each of them drawing doodles on their math notebooks with the name of their favorite dancer featured prominently — "I Heart Gev," or "Cindy & Twitch." (Would she then become "Mrs. Twitch," I wonder?)

Ya know what? I am starting to feel like I'm not missing much. I am starting to wonder more and more about my prescient statement from just last week: "...he's precisely the type of elimination fodder that you seed a show like SYTYCD with, so as to fill in the early weeks and stretch out a season. Otherwise, this show would have ten dancers instead of twenty, and it'd only kill 10,000 of my brain cells instead of 50,000."

(I am starting to wish I could quote more of last week's write-up, in order to fill out this column, since I have scant memories of watching this week's episodes, save my gentle dreams of chocolate cake and flying in my underwear from my snooze.)

This week's male castaway was Chris, who I mentioned last week was "...[an] untoasted slice of snooze-worthy white bread... Nyquil on two legs." (See what I did there? I quoted myself again. The height of hubris, or justifiable self-reference? YOU DECIDE.) Having said all that, it goes without saying that the dude deserved to go home.

I still wonder if it isn't part of some larger scheme, this slotting of deadly dull dancers into the series to encourage a quick and tidy first few weeks, giving the more exceptional dancers time to relax and find their footing (hardy-har-har) a bit before the REAL competition begins.

I know it definitely makes for pretty banal TV. Even when there's good routines mixed in there, watching lesser dancers struggle through their paces can be excruciating.

A case in point is one of the few numbers I did manage to catch while conscious, Chelsea and Thayne doing the fox trot to "You Can’t Hurry Love" by Phil Collins. Chelsea also went home this week, which is what should happen when you dance to Phil Collins — you should be eliminated from something or other. You should be fired from your job, or ejected from your country club, or perhaps just beaten about the face and head outside your car in the parking lot.

There are worse sins than dancing the fox trot to Phil Collins, but I can't imagine what they would be. So if you want to know why I fell asleep this week during SYTYCD, crank up Phil Collins next time you hear him on the radio, and dance a little. You'll fall asleep too, standing up.