By Sara Kraft (email@example.com)
Summary: The continued adventures of a reality-challenged FoLC, who has just learned of the cancellation of her favorite TV show. Fourth in the author's series of "journal entries" begun with "Loising a Grip on Reality."
All things considered, I'd rather be in Metropolis.
Well now, I know it's been a while since my last entry, but it could not be helped. The situation was out of my hands. And you know who's hands it was in? You guessed it… Dr. Deeter. Or maybe that was just my damaged psyche, but he sure as heck reminded me of that scum. Arrrghh! This mess took forever to get out of, they just wouldn't believe my acting this time. They've finally seen through me. But, don't worry, I have it under control now. No more wild outbursts, no more folc-ish attitude (at least not in public), no more doctors.
You're probably wondering what kind of 'situation' I'm babbling on about. Well, see, it all started one fateful day when I checked my email. It was that one piece of mail that every folc wished didn't exist. I can in no way put blame on the sender, nor the writer of this message (you know, 'don't kill the messenger' or something like that). The blame falls purely upon TPTB, not WB, or even the writers this time, but TPTB at ABC, namely Jamie Tarses. I was crushed, no, devastated with the news that the promised fifth season of Lois and Clark had been brushed off the schedule due to 'poor ratings'. That night, I was able to keep my tears silent and hidden from the surveillance cameras and Daniel. After that, I guess I must have denied that the email was in fact truthful. Or maybe it was just pure hope.
The real problem came on the night of "The Family Hour." Although in some denial, still, I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that this would be the LAST episode of L&C. I was hoping for a great, spectacular episode for the series finale. I watched with a heavy heart, loving the episode, dreading the end of the hour. The last scene came into view, I was a bit miffed, but in the midst of my sorrow, I accepted it. I kept watch through the commercials, fully expecting a farewell from the cast. That was the last straw. My wet eyes spilled over with rage. How could they leave without even a goodbye? I found everything to throw that I could and hurled it at the TV. Out of ammo, I resigned to screaming and sobbing heavily into my pillow as I held onto it for dear life.
I woke up the next day, probably around three or four in the afternoon. I was strapped to my bed again. The funny thing is, I don't even remember Daniel and the rest of the peanut gallery coming to my 'rescue' (from myself). I struggled somewhat to get out of my restraints, and recalled the effort was futile. I lifted my head up (as far as it would go with my torso strapped to the bed) and saw the TV. I think it was between then and the time that Daniel came in with a black eye (must have been the remote <g>) that I receded into an emotional coma. Blocking the pain out would make it go away.
After months of probing, the doctors could find no trace of Lois and Clark in my system. They let me go. Now I'm home, safe in the haven of my L&C decorated room with all of my tapes and memorabilia and my Jamie Tarses dart board.