They wait diligently in their boxed set. After school, I am the only one who frees them. Twenty-nine completed episodes with a comedic overlay and hidden messages, like me. Twenty-nine who got the boot from the network. Twenty-nine hidden gems put in our movie cabinet by family. From my bed I can watch reruns on my laptop, and I don’t mind that few others appreciate these episodes.
Their importance is great. They read my inner struggles and channel my hidden humor. They progress in complexity and hilarity and grab hold of my heart and mind and never cease to make me cry. This is how they scratch.
Should one episode lose it’s meaning to me, the entire series shall crumble, and I will go with it. Replay, replay, replay, they convince me while I huddle in a blanket. They teach.
When I am too sad and my heart too heavy to save face, when I feel tired and hopeless and insignificant, then I brush smudges off with my shirt and switch the TV to AV1. When nothing else can cheer me up. Twenty-nine made me smile despite weights on my chest. Twenty-nine who teach and reteach lessons of life. Twenty-nine who manifest on DVD, heart, and mind.