Lost is Turning Me Into a Methhead
The deal is this. I didn’t get into Lost right away because I never seemed to be home when it aired and believe it or not this pop culture queen does not have TiVo. Anyway, Lost was the kind of show I knew I would find clever and addicting, and perhaps there was a little part of me that was glad I wasn’t a slave to the tube every week.
Then, bored one night last year, I started tuning in to the third season. Lost had become such a part of the pop culture mainstream that even I knew the rudiments of the show: the hatch, the Dharma Initiative, the weird way all the characters seemed to be interconnected somehow. It didn’t take much to figure out the basics of what was going on. And so, like a naïve young thang at her first big girl party, I was hooked on a brand new vice.
However, I had the pleasure of renting the first two seasons and watching all the episodes back to back to back to back (to such a degree that I was literally dreaming about the characters). Mr. Pop Rocks would leave the house for five hours and return to find me still curled up in front of the television, fetal-like, sucking on my hands and mumbling to myself about how bad Ben was. I spent hours on Lostpedia and even more hours discussing the minutiae of the show with friends who were similarly addicted.
Now I have to experience the pain of waiting an entire seven days between episodes, and quite frankly, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. AND there seems to be so much…SO much…that we still don’t know or understand. The big statue that’s missing toes. The black smoke. Jacob and his weird, old-timey ways. What’s up with Walt? Why are the Oceanic Six so guilt-ridden and depressed? And…perhaps most importantly…how can I get bizzee with Sawyer again in my dreams? All right, that last one’s a little off topic. But still…the geniuses behind this show better know exactly how this sucker is gonna come on home, because all I’m saying is if this whole thing ends with an autistic kid shaking a snow globe, I’m gonna be pissed.
OhmigawdIneedmyLOST! – Jennifer Mathieu