Boiled at a Different Degree

The saddest thing to me in television... is the end. I suppose it's fitting that tv shows which mimic the human lifespan with their painful pilots gawky sophomore seasons fantastic middles and the inevitable decline that fans should experience a sort of grief as the show that used to have flowing hair, perky breasts and generally fabu physiques get liver spots and wrinkles and a general lowering. We still love them, but they cause us pain, because some day they will no longer be with us. We all deal with our grief in different ways... some watch reruns of the primo years, trying to forget the troubling episode where the series fell down and couldn't get up. Others move on, ignoring the once vibrant show and all things associated with it. Burning anything that reminds them of it, destroying small potatoes in fits of passionate angst in the produce aisle and crying while doing the wash... Can you really see tiny toy dinos without a tug on your heartstrings? And some of us keep going back for more. Enjoying the good moments, laughing at the flubs and waiting for Joss to beat us over the head with our favourite character's still beating bloodied heart.... and then smile and ask, 'please sir, may I have another?'