Imagine a world where, say, The Price is Right, Porno Password, or Supermarket Sweep was ruled over by some sort of twisted, life-altering, game show abusing entity. See it? Good. Now, imagine this world's new fan favorite, The Wheel of Addiction. In this game, the contestant doesn't win a prize, per se, but rather forms an addiction to a mind-controlling bringer of nirvanaesque tranquility and/or financial gain...or health problems. Where's how I'd want my Wheel to look:
Sex addition implies a lot of the sex with little-to-none of the love. Where's the fun in that? Work addition implies a lot of work with little-to-no overtime pay. Where's the benefit to that? Alcohol addiction implies a lot of alcohol with a lot of the dry heaves. Where's the fun in that? TV addiction implies a lot of Ryan Seacrest. I rest my case.
What I'm getting at is this: given the choice (or lack thereof depending on how the life-altering entity ruled) I'd want my turn at The Wheel of Addiction to have an unfair advantage towards PILL ADDICTION.
Pill addiction implies a lot of pills with all the frills.
The rusting sound of the bottle as you shake it to make sure you have the adequate amount necessary to ease the pain of addiction (it's not your fault, the Wheel made you do it) & fill the void of those who left you? That is the sound of heavenly choirs. The tipping of the pills into your sweaty palm as three or four or eight too many tumble outward, forcing you to reconsider the appropriate dosage intake, only to swallow them all in ne'er do well act of defiance? That is the tipping of sexy.
"What the fuck are you blogging about, Blogger Bill?"
Don't call me Bill.
What the fuck I'm blogging about is simple: there is nothing more Romantic than being addicted to pills. There is the solitude, huddled in front of a roaring fire, the mantle adorned with family photos & Rex's ashes. You sit, staring into the dancing flames, wondering if your shaking will subdue long enough to pop the next hit. There is the secrecy, stealing away to the guest bedroom during Mrs. Bennington's formal Christmas party. You flood down your "grown-up candy" with Mrs. Bennington's watered down holiday cheer, barely avoiding young Sissy Bennington's ascension down the staircase, thus halting any inquires to "share the red ones" with her.
So yes, in that world where game shows are a little more, say, controlling of one's Life Path, I want my wheel to be rigged, my pills Romanticised to the point of titters and guffaws, & my jovially dry hostess Mrs. Bennington to be my naked Jake Gyllenhaal.