I know that most of you must be shocked by my announcement that I’m allowing my three young children to watch the finale of “Breaking Bad” this Sunday. (And yes, my youngest is two years old.)
I get it. It’s appalling. It’s horrifying. In fact, I hope that you’re so upset with my decision that you “like” this post on Facebook. I mean, obviously, you don’t like this post. You don’t like that I’m going to let my children watch “Breaking Bad.” But, maybe you’ll “like” it in the way Facebook lets you “like” horrible things that you disagree with and find so morally repugnant that you decide to share them with your friends.
Oh, God! If you could do that, if you could share this post with your friends because you find me so damn irresponsible, I would be so grateful! Thank you in advance! That would be so helpful!
Because, you see, I need a “thing.”
And letting my kids watch the finale of “Breaking Bad” is going to be my thing.
I’m a blogger and bloggers aren’t really anything without their thing. That woman in New York who’s making 300 sandwiches for her boyfriend so he’ll marry her has a thing, and she got to be on the “Today Show.”
I don’t know if my thing will get me booked on the “Today Show,” but maybe they’ll talk about me on “The View.” The morning zoo team on my local top-40 station might yuk it up over it. Oh, I think they’d have a lot of fun with it! They have a lot of fun with everything!
Oh, God! If this gets big enough, if enough of you hate me, maybe Jimmy Kimmel will use me as a punch line in his opening monologue: “Hey, did you hear about that crazy lady who’s letting her kids watch the finale of ‘Breaking Bad’?” And that crazy lady will be me!
The Tanning Mom had her thing. The Tiger Mom had her thing. The woman who put her young daughter on a diet and then wrote about it in a magazine had a thing – and now she has a book. She got to write an entire book about her thing.
I would love to write a book about my thing. That’s why I’m going to let my kids watch the finale of “Breaking Bad.”
I know what you are thinking: everyone is going to hate you. It’s okay if everyone in America hates me.
Have you ever watched any reality show ever? The real stars are never the sweet-girl-next-door types. Hell no. The real stars on the reality shows are the ones who tell you up front that they aren’t there to make friends. And they don’t. And then that’s their thing, being an awful person who didn’t make friends. I am ready, willing and able to be an awful person if that’s part of my thing.
Speaking of famous people, I imagine I’m going to be rubbing elbows with some pretty big celebrities. Maybe even a Kardashian. No, not THE actual Kardashians, but I assume they have cousins or aunts. I’ll take it. I’ll pal around with a Kardashian cousin or two. The more the merrier. Because in celebrity math, two D-list celebrities equal one C-list celebrity; and C-list celebrities get to be in US Weekly.
I want to be in US Weekly! I want to wear it better. Or not. I would be happy to be in US Weekly and not be the one to wear it better as long as they spell my name right, and I don’t even care if they spell my name right.
Because my name and how it’s spelled isn’t going to be my thing. Letting my kids watch the finale of “Breaking Bad” will be. And I’m not really, actually going to let them do that. I mean, that would be pretty @#$%ed up. It’s on way past their bedtime.