would one of you assholes please tell me which season I finally get laid?
Over the course of the last three years, I have derived a fair amount of my life's explanation from Lost--a show so teetering precariously on the verge of total coherent collapse, I can't even admit to liking anymore. Making sense of the show's plot, which has been riddled so full of holes, side stories, twists, and re-twists, has been like trying to piece together a graham cracker crate of twizzlers caught on the business end of a drive-by shooting. Which, by the way, sounds absolutely fucking delicious. In short, I've quit trying to understand it anymore, because in order to just watch the damn show, and stay abreast of each new, convoluted development as it grows even further misaligned with previous twists, my brain requires extensive hydration and carbo-loading in both pre, and post-viewing sessions. By the time each 45 minute episode is over, I'm exhausted; eyes yellowed and bloodshot, skull throbbing, and breath coming in dry, ragged heaves.
However, I continue to watch this glorious trainwreck, because minus all the bullshit about the hatch, the Others, the crazy French woman, the other hatches, the freighter, the shape-shifting smoke monsters, and the other Others, our story arcs have been eerily similar. Mostly just the part about crash-landing on a tiny island, kicking and screaming, but before long growing accustomed to life on said island. It's strange how in the moments just after the deluge, in the ensuing constant kick and push upward, how easy it is to still grow comfortable, and carve out a little tent in the sand with the people and places that were initially met with resistance and resigned tolerance. But with complacence grows discontent, growing into a permanent cycle of escapism--as we only manage to sabotage those certain comforts and escape into increasingly hostile situations, in hopes of finding again what we once lost. But after surrender, acceptance, and retreat, we return to find that camp, now hardly as we left it. That once hostile environment, then temporarily tamed, now hostile and empty again.
I hadn't realized how deep into the cycle I was, until late in season 3 when it was revealed that at least the terminally hot Kate and 'ol Jack Blue Balls had made it off the island (and if you haven't seen this particular episode yet, it's not technically a spoiler if you're three years late to the bandwagon, you tardy prick), and in a pivotal confrontation between the two, Jack utters one of the most classic lines in television history:
"Kate, we have to go back."
Kate, clearly indifferent to his shortsighted demands, tearful as Jack is full of metaphorical shit.
What Kate doesn't realize however, is that the writers of Lost are in fact, about to honor Jack's moronic and immature request, and inexplicably carry the two back to the island, to re-affirm the notion that nothing will ever be as it was, and that the show's comprehensibility is about to crash faster than a recovering LSD-addict at Burning Man. Terrible as it was, wonderful as it became, we can always go back, but we can never really go back.
Though I have every intention of finishing the sixth and final season, I've long since dropped trou and have pissed into the wind, all attempts at deducing the intentions of the writers, or theories behind connecting any aspects of the show's horribly crooked story arc. Again, not because I still like the show, or because I've already invested so much time in the characters, but simply because I remain curious.
Curious to see how this baffling island story of my own is supposed to play out. How will I next try to go back?
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