“Lost” is coming to a close, and though I’m still a couple of episodes behind, I’m already starting to feel a little empty inside.  I’m not pissed off, though, like everyone else seems to be.  There could never be a satisfactory ending to the show, and I’m not sure why anyone thought there would be.

The science-minded are pissed off that it’s supernatural, and the supernatural-minded are pissed that it’s not the supernatural thing they wanted.  (Hell, I’m pissed that Richard is only about the same age as Spike was on “Buffy.”  They kept hinting that he was really old, and pshaw.  He’s only like 170.  Whatever.)

But that’s just it.  Part of the beauty of “Lost” was its ambiguity.  You could sift between any number of myriad mysteries and see whatever the hell you wanted to see:  ultimate televised apophenia.  It only worked when most things remained unexplained — no one thought about how terrible it would be when they finally started making things clear.

And we’ve all been through this before.  Beloved shows end, usually badly.  Look at how “Twin Peaks” ended.  We all recovered (eventually).  You can even see these things as a learning opportunity.  For me, the ending of “Battlestar Galactica” was good practice for attaining Buddhist-style non-attachment to television plotlines, for instance.

So…I’m just along for the ride.  I’ll keep watching until it’s done, and I’m not feeling invested in any particular outcome.

Unless they kill Hurley, and then I will cut a bitch.

I think it (she?) was getting ready to debut in a revival of “Noises Off.”

Yeah.  So I’m still insane, even while sleeping.

But my dream does have a point.  Even if we ever do achieve real artificial intelligence, we have no guarantee that it will do anything we want it to do — or anything we think it will.  Maybe it would want to pursue a career in the arts, who knows?  Just because the Singularitarians believe something doesn’t make it true.  Or probable, even.

I dreamt her early reviews were good, too — that robotic Angela Lansbury.  More power to her.  (AC or DC, I wonder?)

Yeah, okay.  Let’s do a little reality check here.  Check, check.  Is this mic on?  Can you hear me in the back?  Good.

First off, how is this much different from other fast food offerings?  Not much.  It just doesn’t have a bun, which would have been welcomed with open arms during the worst of the Atkins fad.  (Have you guys forgotten how evil buns were supposed to be just a couple of years ago?)  But more to the point, this thing has about the same number of calories as any fast food chicken sandwich.  It has, according to the Magical Interwebs, 540 calories and 32 grams of fat.  Burger King’s Original Chicken Sandwich has 630 calories and 39 grams of fat, while the Original Whopper has 770 calories and 48 grams of fat.  That almost makes the Double Down look like a sensible choice in comparison, right?  The grilled version of the Double Down has 460 calories, which is about comparable to the Whataburger Grilled Chicken Sandwich and its 470 calories.

I’m not saying that you should run out and gobble up a Double Down the minute it hits the streets.  (I have zero interest in eating it, frankly, and I’m a big old Fatty Fatterson.)  But I am asking you to look at media hype with a critical eye, especially when it comes to moral panic regarding food.  (The Fat Nutritionist is a wonderful resource for that kind of thing, by the way.)  There’s always such over-the-top hand wringing whenever some new “high calorie” food item pops up, but it seems like the average person understands very little about calories — other than the fact that fatties should eat less of ‘em, of course.  (Insert eyeroll here.)

Calories are simply units of measurement — and not the yardstick of one’s moral certainty, either.  As an ex-dieter who currently practices the tenets of Health at Every Size, I know that my perspective is somewhat unique in this culture.  But the Double Down is just…no big deal.

So can we all just let it go now?

Let’s see.  I changed my Twitter background last week, and I watched that damned “Scarface” school play video so many times that I’ve said “mother fudger” accidentally when I meant to say, um, something else. (Word to the wise: It’s not a real school play.  So you can stop the shock and horror pantomime about how someone should “think of the children” already.)

What else?  I ran into an old writing acquaintance randomly on the street.  And I had tea with Tanzy, too.  Man, I’m making it sound like I did something last week — well, something besides watching “The Stand” for 8 hours on Sunday, which I also did.  Shamefully.  (Also, I know I’m supposed to fear Randall Flagg, what with the evil and the mullet and all, but…I still end up a little bit afraid of Gary Sinise every time I see that mini-series.  And he didn’t even wear copious amounts of eye liner, like in “Mission to Mars.”  Gary Sinise + Too Much Eye Liner = Sarah’s Special Nightmare.  It’s true.)

I guess the only other thing I did last week was this: I came to this understanding that the way I experience my world has narrowed to this tiny pinpoint perspective of daily life, where trying a new recipe seems newsworthy and just leaving the house for anything other than work is a Pretty Big Deal.  How much of this is a function of my depression and how much of this is just a case of early onset “middle-agedness” I couldn’t say.  But it’s a limiting way to live.

I guess I have something to work on this week.

So (and I’m sure this is a relief to people who recognize websites visually), I think I’ stop fiddling with the settings now.

Plus I’m sure you’re all very excited that I’ve managed to write nothing for months except for two posts explaining that I’m changing the website I don’t update in any other way.  Just doesn’t seem right, does it?

So…since I seem to be incapable of generating any original content at this time, please enjoy the following links:

• Want to know what a Cat 1 storm is like in Antarctica?
• Would you rather read an apology from the screenwriter of “Battlefield Earth”? (I know I want those two hours of my life back, and this is probably the closest I’ll ever get.)
• Or perhaps you simply wish to revel in the perfection that is Furry Happy Monsters? Michael Stipe looks so happy to be amongst Muppets.

Okay. Have fun.  I’ll be back eventually.

Happy Monday, my friends.

But…it does taste more like Coke Classic than Diet Coke. So I guess that means that Coke Classic also tastes like “existential bankruptcy,” but Chapter 7 existential bankruptcy (“real” bankruptcy) as opposed to the Chapter 13 (“reorganization”) bankruptcy of Coke Zero.

Your life is filled with terrible emptiness either way. I think I’ll stick to water, then.

(Sometimes I like to take a metaphor not to its logical conclusion, but much farther than it should ever go. You’re very welcome.)

You know who you are.

You’re the people who go to the state fair and take pictures of funnel cakes. The folks who go apple picking and laugh and laugh and take pictures of everything, pictures that are “just so.” It’s infuriating. You’re the people who somehow manage to make and do everything by hand, despite having seventy jillion children under the age of nine — all while cataloguing it and sharing it with your adoring fans online.

You, with your perfect autumn light. You, with your sunny dispo-fucking-sition. You — you most of all — with your simple, glorious recipes and seemingly endless free time.

I hate all of you.

Oh, I’m going to keep reading, of course. But I’m still going to hate you, all the same.

But a quick Twitter search revealed that it does in fact exist (thought it doesn’t trend very high), is mostly about farting, and isn’t as amusing as I had hoped.

Here are a few examples I never had the guts to tweet:

• My vagina is weeping…weeping tears of blood. #TMITuesday (And only 58 characters, not bad — easily retweeted.)
• I dreamt I pooped a 12 foot turd the other night, but I don’t think I’ve ever topped 18 inches IRL. #TMITuesday (Bam. Just like that I’m as funny as Sarah Silverman. Which is not that hard, but still…)
• I don’t know how I will pay for holiday gifts this year and I’m thinking about suicide. This is a cry for help, and also for cash. #TMITueday (See, they don’t all have to be scatological.)
  

I am so very, very disappointed. Please consider this post a cry for help, and also for cash. Just joking. But not really. Fuck, internet. You get worse every day.

Also, I’m pretty sure that I’m going to go home and watch some “Twin Peaks.”

So apparently it’s 1990 today. What the hell? Is this what a mid-life crisis feels like?