You would not be wrong if you had concluded that I watch television with the mindset that everything that appears on it is put there for my particular benefit. The TV and I are one, you know. It serves me, and only me, and in return, no-one gets it like I do. This isn’t something I ruminate on very frequently. It’s just a given, you know. Something on my mind? A conundrum to resolve? No worries. TV will provide. It happens like clockwork. For example, I think that David Letterman should have a baby, and, hey presto, the TV provides [okay, so Dave’s not having it with Amy Sedaris as I had hoped, but, still, it’s not a bad return]. The TV and I have been helpfully, but quite detachedly, communing in this manner for months [okay, years] now. And it’s been working out great. Or so I thought.

You see, I think the TV has taken our ‘relationship’ a little more seriously than necessary. Perhaps my constant attention and presence has given him the wrong idea? Perhaps I should have verbalised my needs more effectively, so that we could have established workable boundaries, and such. But I made the mistake of thinking that we understood one another, without the crudeness of words. I had thought that we were, as they say, on the same wavelength. You see, usually our communication occurs thusly. He telecasts information and programming of a variety broad enough to hoodwink the masses into believing that their needs can be met by TV too [fools!], when really, what he’s doing is acting as my helpmate in life by providing for all my needs and queries in a ‘seemingly’ random way. He’s a treasure, and I value him highly, but I really thought he understood that we could never be, nor should we be, more than what we are to each other. I mean, no-one wants to be co-dependent, bro. Chillax.

I never had any cause for concern about the intensity of his feelings for me until tonight. Oh, I used to breezily [thoughtlessly! Oh how could I have been so thoughtless?] say things like “Wow. It’s like you’re speaking directly to me”, and such, but that was just to keep him sweet. And I figured that he had cultivated a sensibility of my tone by now, you know? But maybe that’s just it. Maybe he loves my tone so much that he wants to tell the world, to blow the cover off our long-held secret, and hang the consequences. Because he’s been alarmingly less than subtle recently. Tonight, I was re-watching tonight’s episode of CNNNN so that I could read the newsbar, and I got a little creeped out by TV’s interest in my life. You see, earlier in the evening, I’d been on the phone to my mum [and within TV’s earshot] when we were talking about the Journalism Entrance Test that I have to sit tomorrow [and do well on] for any hope of a palatable future life. And mum was telling me to make sure I went to bed [you know, to my actual bed rather than the couch] to ensure a good night’s sleep so that I would be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on the morrow. So imagine my discomfort when this appeared on the actual newsbar of CNNNN; “Eleanor, listen to your mum, go to bed”. Shit!!!! Okay, so he spelled my name wrong, but some of my closest friends make the same mistake. So lets get back to the “ohmygod” factor here. OH… MY… GOD!! The TV is talking to me! And I actually mean this literally now. He knew I would be watching the show, and he planted a direct message into it. Who else could it be for? How many other Eleanors are there in this world who have mothers who told them to go to bed on the very night that the same request was beamed straight into their lounge at a time when they should by rights have been in bed were they really serious about an early start? Huh? Answer me that. Boy, he seriously overstepped his authority on this one. Imagine, exhorting me to change my lifestyle and habits on the night when it was most advantageous to do so? The cheek! We are seriously on the rocks. I don’t need that kind of interfering pressure from the likes of him. We’re just longtime companions. Get it, buddy? You’ve got no right to go all blatant on me and puncture the illusion we have been working under for so long. Sheeesh. The nerve. The creepiness.

I really think he’s getting a little unhealthy in his regard for me. You know, of the “if I can’t have her, no-one can” school of unhealthy regard. Because, no sooner had I reacted a little tensely to his first communiqué, than he lobbed a more aggressive one into my lap. I was casually flicking through some channels, trying to rationalise that “Eleanor, listen to your mum, go to bed” was probably just a friendly prank perpetrated by a well-meaning and well-connected friend whose identity I couldn’t put my finger on. While I was arguing with myself that this was “far-fetched. Oh yeah? Far-fetched compared to what? The TV having designs on me?”, I landed upon 101 Things Removed From The Human Body. Now, if you’ll here me out, I’ll prove to you that this clearly signals TV’s intent to manipulate me into a position where he can have me all to himself. I think he’s seeking a declaration from me, or something. He tried to do the whole mature “if you love someone, you’ll let them go, and then they’ll come back Indecent Proposal-style” attempt at defining the relationship [you know, he really does want me to pursue my dreams]. And when that failed to elicit a response from me, he went all “go crazy so she’ll notice and address it one way or the other” act of desperation. You see, 101 Things Removed From The Human Body was clearly designed to freak me out. It’s an entire hour of gruesome anecdotes detailing the dangers of every conceivable object around you. It’s like he’s saying, “Elanor, why leave the house? Strike that. Why even leave the couch? Look at all the horrors that occur outside the periphery of my protective flickering glow. Do you really want to leave me?” He would know that I would be extra-sensitive to such arguments at the moment, because he would also know that I watched Final Destination 2 this week, which is a whole movie dedicated to the explication of the inexhaustible potential for fatality in our everyday lives [particularly if “Death itself” happens to be actively pursuing us in our everyday lives]. Death-traps galore. Everywhere. TV tricked me into watching 101, plying me with the expectation of a “rectal foreign bodies” fest, only to slam me from the get-go with spikes and planks and fenceposts and all these bad ideas about slipping over and impaling myself with various common objects. He’s a nasty piece of work, and I feel that he violated our bond tonight. I don’t know how I am ever going to get back to that great place where we were at before he went ahead and ruined it all. I just had to come and talk to you, Computer. I feel like you’re the only one I can confide in about our problems at the moment. I’m not over-reacting am I? He really fucked up, didn’t he? I feel like I really need to re-evaluate the signals I send out. In any case, we really need some distance. But he's here all the time! Geez, it’s gonna be awkward.