TLC - you have got to stop fucking with me. You and your damn medical mysteries are freaking me out. I hate porous textures, and have to think of smooooth surfaces if I'm in a room with too much wicker or loofah. And so when I do a drive-by with the remote control and catch a glimpse of Tree Man you set me back like 5, 10 therapy years.
All I want to do is watch Jon get henpecked (though he is looking like he's primed for a hot babysitter these days) or Kate scrub out her new fridge with Q-tips. And I love to adore those sweet tiny folks. Amazed that that wee mom gets more done than my 5'4" ass ever does. But you keep luring me in and then tormenting me with your freaky medical shows. I want to keep clickin past, but I'm immobilized when I see this stuff.
And after being mesmerized by the girl with the the giant legs I was convinced that my legs were that size. It took a long time to talk me and my plus sized thighs down from hysteria. The girl born with out a face, the man who's arm's exploded. Stop! Please just give me some toddlers having meltdowns because their eyeshadow doesn't match their tiaras. Or getting stoked because they can buy a cow.
No more giant tumors TLC! I beg you! I just don't stock enough Xanax and hand wipes to keep up.