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.