Meredith Hoffa: After five devoted seasons of being a "Lost" watcher, I decided to voice my complaints.
Stop hiding stuff. Do you hear me? STOP HIDING! I need you to come out from behind the *^%$#ing renaissance faire garb, show your face, and start answering my &^%*ing questions.
I'm getting increasingly anxious that you are never going to answer these questions. What are your plans, man? I've stuck with you for five seasons, yet it seems like your whole M.O. is to just pose question after question, layering them on top of one another like a crazypants question lasagna, and as someone who is a do-er and also vaguely OCD and thrives on checking items off a list and gaining closure, it is really messing with my sense of sanity that you keep adding MORE questions to my list without ever clearing the clutter and allowing me to cross anything off that list. Who raised you? I mean seriously. There are three months left to the whole affair, and frankly I'm concerned that the series finale will come and go and you will not have addressed the outstanding questions, and if that happens I will feel such massive, raging and victimy piss-offery that I will have no choice but to prematurely turn into a bitter old lady when really I am a young and pleasant gal and should -- at least for a little while longer -- still carry with me some small to medium amount of hope and idealism.
Honestly, do you even have a plan? Is anyone driving this bus? I have followed you on this island journey with the assumption that you are leading me somewhere good, towards some gratifying climax. But if that's not the case, please tell me now. Sooner is better than later. Because in your hands is the power to ruin my trust in television forever. And Lord knows I adore television.
"Lost," please be aware of the sacrifices I have made for you over the years. I've ignored my pesky, tugging inner voice of reason and have decided to accept the inexplicable lack of hair-frizzing humidity, the absence of a single shellfish allergy, the seemingly unlimited supply of backpacks, men in permanent eyeliner, Sun's pristine linen pants and sweater set ensembles and the fact that Hurley does not lose weight. For you I have also accepted monsters made of ash, tropics-dwelling polar bears, reincarnation, electromagnetic fields, baby-adoring hobbit-men, and neanderthal-esque madwomen/Frenchwomen. Oh and also time travel. Also ghosts. Though then again, are they ghosts? You have yet to answer that question.
Anyway, we've been together a long time now, and my strongest hope is that those gazillion hours were not spent in vain. I'm a busy person with a busy life -- a baby, a high maintenance cat, bills -- and unfortunately I don't have time to indulge your shenanigans. There's certainly still time for a happy ending here (not that kind!) and so please, if you don't want to lose me, please, please give me some sort of sign that you are not leading me down a path of bull*&% juvenile sci-fi mumbo-jumbo fantasy dreck.
|Meredith Hoffa's first-person writing has appeared in The New York Times, Boston Globe Magazine, Fit Pregnancy, Business Traveler, and the new anthology, "Rejected" (Villard/Random House, 2009). She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and daughter.|