Dear Desperate Housewives,
I am writing this letter to break up with you. You know the cliché, “its not you, its me”? Well that does not apply to us. This is all your fault. I should have done this in season two when you made Alfre Woodard into a crazy lady who locked her son in her basement. What was I thinking?
Actually, I know exactly what I was thinking. You remodeled your sets and made the upper middle class homes even more beautiful than season one. You increased Jesse Metcalfe's camera time and limited his wardrobe to shirtless outfits only. But enough is enough. It’s been five long seasons and I’m not going to sit around and wait for you to dump me when you get the 7 yr itch.
Tonight I realized that you haven’t had a new episode in a month and I didn’t even miss you. I actually think I needed the space. Really, I can no longer ignore that your twists are really not that twisted, the drama is not really that dramatic and your plot lines never stay within the lines which is really convenient for you, isn’t it? Isn’t it!?! And worst of all, you aged everyone by five years over a summer. When is older ever more interesting, says I?
You are no longer healthy for me. All those apples in your promos don’t fool me anymore. I devote an hour a week to you and what do I get in return? Am I smarter? Am I at least more interesting to talk to? I would say no. Therefore, I’m taking back my Sunday night 9pm time slot. What I plan to do with this new hour of freedom is none of your damn business.
If you and I were meant to be together, we will be. But for now, I can’t help but feel that you never really knew me because if you did you would never have let Edie die. You have changed. You are no longer the sophisticated, edgy television show that I fell in love with. Now you are just sloppy and older.
Please don’t be upset. I’m sorry to end this so close to the May sweeps, but good luck in the future. And by good luck in the future, I mean I hope you get crushed by celebrity apprentice.
With Love,
Amy
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