![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Watching the X-Files at this point is like watching Hitler, Mussolini, and Stalin take candy from children while telling them that there's no such thing as Santa Claus. I don't know why I do this to myself. I really don't.
::sticks fingers in ears:: la, la, la, the x-files *really* ended with the seventh season when things were funny and sweet, la la la, everyone's alive, M&S are shagging like bunnies and spooning like kittens whenever they aren't out kicking monster/mutant ass, la la la, the alien threat was all a big hoax, la la la, there IS such a thing as happily ever after DAMNIT. la fucking la.
All right. I've got reality issues. This is true. See, I did enjoy angst, once. If it was arty and dark and disturbed and painful, I ate it up with the proverbial spoon. This applied to all fictitious mediums.
But, no more. I had to stop watching DC and Felicity because I just couldn't handle the emotional investment, and I don't watch television the way casual viewers do. I take it all to heart. I *can't* be casual. Believe me, I have tried; when I started watching Buffy it was purely a casual thing and I was determined to keep it that way. Now I've taped almost every episode and am less than fond of this season because it's so damn dark and everyone's so damn unhappy. I won't see movies unless I know they'll have a happy ending. And I started reading *romance* novels, for pity's sake. I am officially lame. I am officially out of the angst club. Next thing you know I'll be one of those happy, *cheery* people.
But. But. Watching the X-Files this season is just pure masochism. I suffer through because I've been promised Duchovny in the finale, even though I'm spoiled and am less than optimistic. And the kid's darn cute. And, well, I love Scully. But while last week was sad this week was pure hell, and I'm way too invested in this damn show to go through this.
I'm glad the damn thing's almost done. I can happily return to reruns then and my delusion that the show ended in season seven. I liked season seven. Mulder and Scully were cute. They touched a lot. Scully giggled and goggled over an invisible body and they were totally having sex.
Sigh. I was twelve when the X-Files started. I was devoted for many seasons. It was the highlight of my Friday nights, as I was a nerd and preferred staying at home to socializing with non-family people. I drifted away for a couple of seasons but returned like the prodigal daughter and then I caught up with FX. I do not think it is unreasonable to expect that they fix things by the finale. I do not think it is terrible that I feel these characters deserve some *happiness*. I do not think wanting it to end with hope, and dare I say, love, makes me a deluded romantic or a shameless idealist. So there.
Now that I feel all of five years old, I'm going to go read something trashy.
::sticks fingers in ears:: la, la, la, the x-files *really* ended with the seventh season when things were funny and sweet, la la la, everyone's alive, M&S are shagging like bunnies and spooning like kittens whenever they aren't out kicking monster/mutant ass, la la la, the alien threat was all a big hoax, la la la, there IS such a thing as happily ever after DAMNIT. la fucking la.
All right. I've got reality issues. This is true. See, I did enjoy angst, once. If it was arty and dark and disturbed and painful, I ate it up with the proverbial spoon. This applied to all fictitious mediums.
But, no more. I had to stop watching DC and Felicity because I just couldn't handle the emotional investment, and I don't watch television the way casual viewers do. I take it all to heart. I *can't* be casual. Believe me, I have tried; when I started watching Buffy it was purely a casual thing and I was determined to keep it that way. Now I've taped almost every episode and am less than fond of this season because it's so damn dark and everyone's so damn unhappy. I won't see movies unless I know they'll have a happy ending. And I started reading *romance* novels, for pity's sake. I am officially lame. I am officially out of the angst club. Next thing you know I'll be one of those happy, *cheery* people.
But. But. Watching the X-Files this season is just pure masochism. I suffer through because I've been promised Duchovny in the finale, even though I'm spoiled and am less than optimistic. And the kid's darn cute. And, well, I love Scully. But while last week was sad this week was pure hell, and I'm way too invested in this damn show to go through this.
I'm glad the damn thing's almost done. I can happily return to reruns then and my delusion that the show ended in season seven. I liked season seven. Mulder and Scully were cute. They touched a lot. Scully giggled and goggled over an invisible body and they were totally having sex.
Sigh. I was twelve when the X-Files started. I was devoted for many seasons. It was the highlight of my Friday nights, as I was a nerd and preferred staying at home to socializing with non-family people. I drifted away for a couple of seasons but returned like the prodigal daughter and then I caught up with FX. I do not think it is unreasonable to expect that they fix things by the finale. I do not think it is terrible that I feel these characters deserve some *happiness*. I do not think wanting it to end with hope, and dare I say, love, makes me a deluded romantic or a shameless idealist. So there.
Now that I feel all of five years old, I'm going to go read something trashy.