The television that I do watch

I have Netflix.
I have an addictive personality.
I watch Californication.
Tonight I watched it a lot.
I feel compelled to defend the fact that I watch this show because: a) I don't really watch much TV to begin with; b) I decry most peoples' taste in programming choices; and c) it has a really lascivious title.
I like Californication because it resonates with me on a personal level.
It's about hedonism and debauchery and drinking too much.  It's about doing really stupid things and then paying for them.  It's about loving the important, key people in your life, but also about how easy it is for your best intentions to go out the window. 
Additionally it's about messy relationships, non-conformity, honesty and fucking, and also about trying to write a book.
I feel for Hank Moody.  I do.  He has a perpetual hangover and does incredibly stupid things, and yet he has such a jocular manner and his heart is in the right place at the wrong time, and we so want to forgive him his rapscallion behaviour.
His long standing, on again off again girlfriend who, in fourteen years he hasn't deigned to marry suffers through his bouts of idiocy because her love for him and her connection to him is greater than her exasperation at the culmination of his profound follies.
Short story long: last night Michael and I were shovelling no small amount of tuna maguro and ebi pot stickers into our mouths and he asked me about my "feelings" as though I actually had any.  A glass of Chardonnay in I confessed that I was worried that the only reason that he was with me was because he was at a point in his life age wise where it was less of an effort to stay with me than to gamble and to see what else was out there (though surely they wouldn't offer up the hair star quota like I do).
Michael's response was that no, he loves me, and that he is worried he can't provide enough excitement in our relationship so that I might seek it elsewhere by doing things like running with posterior tibular tendonitis, or mixing colors and whites when I do laundry.
This is laughable because I don't do laundry.
In summation: my horseshoe is intact.
Not only are my four month old roots hardly noticeable because my hairdresser makes my highlights look so natural, but I have a partner in life that (a few months ago) I thought I had potentially lost but, because he isn't quick to judgement, and because he can be a reluctant fan of open dialogue, and because of his predilection for hair stars, he is still here.
And so, when it comes to him, it's like Niagara Falls down there.