My parents have never approved of my unhealthy relationship with television; they think being hooked on a vampire slayer, a witty dwarf, or a neurotic detective is a recipe for a broken heart. Of course, they say this while having their eyes glued to the next big soap opera on Univisión or Telemundo. So I ignore their qualms and fall deeper in love with television, deeper into the abyss that we all know too well.
For the majority of my life, I’ve been devoted to television, but I didn’t ask for her hand until my sophomore year of high school, when I first began to analyze critically How I Met Your Mother. I did this for a time, until laugh tracks became singing arrows (Arrow) and singing arrows became methamphetamine (Breaking Bad). Watching Emily Bett Rickards’ incredible performance as the quirky genius Felicity Smoak and Bryan Cranston’s artistic representation of Walter White’s moral decay, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life having this passionate affair with television by writing for it.
When it comes to television, there is no genre I wouldn’t watch—check my Netflix history and DVR recordings—but I would say that drama has seduced me most. Dramas like Games of Thrones that stir a drastic change in emotion are, for better or for worse, my weakness. From a cinematic standpoint, I love film noir: you wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve seen Hitchcock’s Rear Window, Hanson’s L.A. Confidential, or Nolan’s Inception, with popcorn in one hand and Twizzlers in the other. But if I were to single out a common thread to my taste in television and film, I’d say I like anything that’s not afraid to plunge into serious themes with amazing secondary characters. Whatever guise television takes (sorry, film)—a ducky tie or a hazmat suit—I always see her in a silky wedding dress with the remote control leading her down the aisle.
My friends always ask me, “Do you really love television that much?” I do.