She's so... Felicity.
Gods how I'm starting to hate those words.
Let me set the stage a little here and keep in mind that today's ramble is about a non-issue. You might not care less about television. I know that I find it pretty hard to do so. However, have you ever had something get under your skin and just start it to itching so powerfully that no matter how hard you scratch, it just burrows deeper and deeper, and you only really succeed in shredding your own skin?
My countrymen of the great nation of the web? I have a name for my pain, and that name is Felicity.
A little background, if you'll permit. The TV show _Felicity_ came out some time in the hazy past (I could look it up, but if this abstract number will improve the quality of your life even a whit, then your life requires more fine-tuning than I could ever hope to do). It seemed to be aimed at the aprez Dawson's Creek hour, to give faithful viewers a treat for surviving to the end of an episode. Unfortunately, much like Spam-flavoured ice cream, what you intend to be a treat can wind up leaving you heaving on the floor of your local emergency clinic, begging for the sweet, merciful release of death.
That near-meat treat that's good to eat? Felicity.
This show is yet another in the WB Network's endless parade of muddled and confused teen fare, the trend itself apparently being an aftershock from the era when Beverly Hills 90210's slightest murmur could displace medium-sized land-wars in terms of newsworthiness. Felicity chronicles a young woman's escape from the comfortable nest of her over-dominating family, into the uncertain world of a New York university, as she chases a boy who never really noticed her in high school. Her flight was presented to us in terms of a growing up, and moving on... a growing of wings to fly!
If you'd asked me at the time, I would have told you that it seemed like Felicity was a little brat who, at some point in her high-school career, had volunteered to have her brain stuffed with cotton baton in the name of science, and who had forgotten to have it removed in her haste to graduate. If any other person in the world had made this decision, they would fairly soon remark to themselves 'oh dear, I appear to have just fscked up my life. Perhaps I should reconsider my impulsive ways'. But not our spritely heroine (perhaps that should be heroin, as I've seen junkies with more sense than the title character). No, it seems that she blossoms at university, where blossoms is a word I use to take the place of the phrase 'loses her cotton baton in the campus pool and operates on the cognitive level of clotted cream'.
I stopped watching Felicity as soon as my ears ceased to bleed, and the two demons from the nether pits of Hell untied me so I could turn off the television set. However, I just couldn't get away from the show. Every other commercial summarized the life of our pixie-haired beauty in a fifteen second sound-bite that was fourteen-seconds too long in comparison to my interest in it. Discussions started to flare up about the show. The WB began to show 'very special episodes' for those of us unlucky enough to have missed pivotal moments in the title character's life, as an alternative to leaping from a tall building for having missed even a second of Felicity's chronicles. (What could we have missed, oh gentle reader? Well... it seems that there was this one very special episode of Felicity that would have the cosmos themselves buzzing with excitement... for on that day... Felicity had... cut... her... hair! My stars, I may pass out...)
And now? Now the WB is attempting to sell its non-product by telling us that her behaviour is so... so... Felicity. Yes, in that fond, puzzled way that you reserve for discussing the capricious play of kittens and the killing-spree actions of axe-murderers. We're having the exploits of Our Favorite Ditz's life being breathlessly recounted just in case we've somehow missed the fact that she has all the common sense God gave to an olive-pitter. We're meant to see how wonderful and complicated and engaging Felicity's life has become, from its humble roots as a simple act of rebellion...
IT AIN'T WORKING, HON!
No matter how much you dress up a clown in a miniskirt, it's still a clown in a miniskirt. This show examines nothing. If you could sit in on a writer's meeting, you'd probably see ten men playing hackysack until the president wandered in and told them that if they didn't do their homework, there'd be no sweet-potato pie for dessert. Felicity might as well pick up some chainsaws and start to juggle them. Then I'd be perhaps willing to suspend my disbelief and watch the show, but only to see when one of those chainsaws slipped.
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