Look, I’m sure your show is a “slow burn.” I’m sure it’s “brilliantly layered,” and the “character development is chef’s kiss.” I’m sure by the seventh episode, everything clicks and the brilliance of the writing blossoms like an Emmy-winning orchid in the desert. But here’s the thing: I am 40. I am tired. I have had cancer. I have survived trauma that would make a CW teen drama look subtle. I am simply too emotionally and chronologically bankrupt to invest in six hours of television that might eventually get good.
I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m just saying: if your pilot plays like a beige oatmeal commercial and the second episode is still giving “waiting room at the DMV” energy, I’m probably out.
My Time Is Not an All-You-Can-Eat Buffet
Remember when TV had to hook you? Like, the first episode of Lost gave us a plane crash, a polar bear, a smoke monster, and a full-blown existential crisis. Grey’s Anatomy started with a one-night stand and a tumor the size of a cantaloupe. We didn’t have to wade through six episodes of “mood-setting” and “slow character reveals” before someone finally did something. Now, every show is like, “Trust the process.” Sweetie, I’ve been through therapy. I don’t need another process.
I have enough processes. Chemotherapy was a process. Healing from childhood abandonment? Process. Being a general manager during a hotel staffing crisis in Texas while trying to hold onto a sense of sanity? A goddamn process.
If I Wanted Homework, I’d Go Back to Grad School
Watching TV used to be fun. A little escapism. A little intrigue. Maybe a hunky brooding hero with trauma we unpack slowly over the course of a season—not a 12-episode interpretive dance about how trauma manifests in their eyeblinks. I’m not trying to work to love your show. If I wanted to do that, I’d rewatch The Leftovers or figure out what the hell Mr. Robot was trying to say.
Don’t get me wrong, I respect good storytelling. I’ll commit when something earns it. (The Last of Us? I was in before the credits rolled.) But don’t tell me it takes half a season to “really appreciate” the vibe. That’s not a vibe. That’s Stockholm syndrome.
I Don’t Have the Bandwidth — Literally or Emotionally
Between rebuilding my life post-cancer, managing hotels in a world where “Do you have a pool?” is somehow considered an emergency question, and trying to convince my chihuahua daughter Daisy that Matthew is not a threat to her throne, I don’t have time to train to like something. If it doesn’t spark joy by episode two, I Marie Kondo that sucker out of my queue.
And the people who recommend these shows? They’re always like, “No, no, trust me, once you get to episode six, you’ll be obsessed.” Ma’am, if it takes six hours for me to want to watch something, it’s not a show. It’s a hostage situation with better lighting.
The Problem Isn’t Me. It’s the Pacing.
I blame streaming culture. All these 10-episode miniseries padded out with vibes and violin music. What used to be a tight 42-minute network drama now drags out scenes like, “Here’s four minutes of this man looking at a lake while orchestral sadness plays.” Cool. Got it. He’s emotionally unavailable. Can we move on?
We used to reward economy of storytelling. Now we reward ambiguity and call it prestige. I’m not saying every show needs to open with a literal bang, but a plot point before episode four wouldn’t kill you.
TL;DR: Life’s Too Short. Literally.
I spent too many years surviving things I shouldn’t have had to survive. I value my time. I value my mental energy. And I value the stories I invite into my world. So if your show needs a spreadsheet and a six-episode grace period, I’m out.
Tell me a story. Give me characters I care about. Hook me. Make me laugh. Make me cry. But please, for the love of Gaga and all the streaming platforms, stop telling me “it gets better.” My time isn’t a scavenger hunt.
Either show up early—or don’t expect me to stay late.