I sit on my couch, watching as the images on my television flicker on and off. The fan above me turns with a squeak and a groan, serving as a constant reminder of how terrible things have become. The paper has torn away from the wall, revealing my arachnid fellows and black-backed shell walkers within.
I sigh as I turn from channel to channel, trying to find solace in my den of grief. Fearful for my ability to keep living, I begin to become frantic, searching desperately for my release from the troubles of my real life. I fear that, soon, I will have to take drastic measures, as I attempt to end the darkness that grips my home.
And that's when they came on. Those four wonderful girls. Jenelle, Chelsea, Kailyn, and Leah.
I recall seeing you before, in my channel surfings from previous nights. I let the remote sink from my hand into the folds of the couch, staring with interest and intent as Jenelle fights her inner party urges, screaming at her mother. Ah, the sweet serenades of a young mother, as she tells her own mother to stay out of her life. I can see the anger rising in your face, the determination to go out and have that drink. Give in to your desires, Jenelle. It will make you stronger, if you like.
And Chelsea, my dear, sweet Chelsea. You are the shining beacon of the group. That's right, you tell Adam to get out. You don't need him. I smile as I look at you show the love and tenderness to your child that was missing from my own childhood, and shed a tear as I reflect on what could have been. I am so jealous of your child.
No one can say they have it worse than you, though, Kailyn. How could anyone be so unfortunate to have a man who drinks and cheats? I had a woman once, and I, too, partook in the drink. I can see why it is such a terrible thing to do when you have someone you love. I curse Jo for the terrible things he has done to you, and wish you all the best.
Last, but not least, Leah. What is there to say about you? A cheating mother, a married teenager...there is much I could accuse you of, but I fear that I don't have the time nor the energy to devote to lambasting and destroying your character. Let the world know that you are what all teenagers should strive to not be. You aren't like Chelsea. No one can ever be like Chelsea.
The images fly by, the drinks spill, the babies cry, and the men shout obscenities. I feel the light slowly creep back into my dark hole. Here, before me, in the small television box, are four individuals who might very well have it worse than I, though I could not say for sure. The fan above stops squeaking, almost on queue, as the image of the show's title flashes on my screen.
In that moment, all I could think was: Teen Mom 2...what a fantastic amalgamation of scum.