We need to talk.
I haven’t been happy with you for a long time now, and it’s time I finally told you. This is really hard for me to say, but I need to. I hope you understand.
I don’t want to see you again.
I never thought it would come to this, but it has. You just don’t do it for me anymore. Not the way you used to.
In the beginning, things were so amazing between us. We would laugh, and dance, and sing. You understood who I was, and what was important to me. You shared my passion for language, and my love of sarcasm and snark. You made inside jokes that I got immediately. It felt like you really knew me, you know? It’s what made me believe in you so strongly.
And then, after about a year or so, things started to change. Something was different about you.
You tried too hard to impress people. You were too willing to let anybody get close to you, especially if they were popular. You favoured cheap shots and crazy antics over the sophisticated jokes and sly humour I’d come to love you for. You stopped making sense to me, yet you didn’t seem to care.
I started to get really worried when you were only available at 8:00, instead of our usual 9:00 date. I wondered which pretty young thing’s attention you were trying to get. But, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t stop believing. I told myself this was just a phase, and you’d eventually revert to your old self, the self that I still caught glimpses of every now and then.
But you didn’t.
So, after three years, I decided we needed a break. I didn’t look at you, think about you, or talk about you for two whole months. I took no interest in where you were, or what you were doing. Still, during that time, I couldn’t help thinking about the old days, when things between us were good: really, really good. And I realized I wasn’t quite ready to let you go.
So, last week, I decided to seek you out again. You weren’t quite the way you used to be, but you weren’t as awful as before. I was willing to give us another chance.
Then you brought in that trashy blonde.
I’m sorry, Glee, but in no universe is Kate Hudson a strong enough dancer to believably* “dance circles” around students who, ostensibly, have been training since before they could walk.
That was the last straw for me.
There was a time when you cared about us artsies, and went out of your way to let us know that. Despite all the superficialities of the show – the hot actors, the bright colours, the great music, the silly humour, the blatant stereotypes (which, to your credit, you tried to subvert, even though you weren’t always successful) – it seemed that you understood how much work and dedication it takes to be an artist. That’s why you cast people like Matt Morrison, Lea Michele, Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel. They weren’t famous (not outside of Broadway, anyway), but they were extremely talented, highly-trained performers. You wanted to be the kind of show that valued that. You knew people like me would be able to appreciate what you were trying to do, and we loved you all the more for it.**
But something happened when you got “popular”. You decided that stunt-casting and eye-candy were more important than talent and skill. And so, to accommodate that, you bent and twisted your plot and your characters into knots, making them impossible to recognize, to love.
The irony of all this is that I hadn’t ever planned to watch you. I’d seen the Season One promos, and thought you were kinda cute, but not enough to make it a point to sit down with you. I really only checked you out because my friend T said she thought you looked interesting. She gave you one hour of her time, then decided that you weren’t all that. I should have followed her lead.
So, thanks for the Journey, but we’re done.
* Hence all those long shots, quick cuts, and stunt doubles always making sure their hair covered their faces, right?