Thus far in 2024, I’ve chewed through most of the Real Housewives franchises (and their spin-offs), watched every reality show that Netflix has cooked up ( Too Hot to Handle ? Check. Selling Sunset ? Check), and devoured both The Traitors and Love Island . In case you think I’m exaggerating my reality TV addiction, there was a period this summer when, in the space of just a few weeks, I watched Rasa Bagdonaviciute scream at Lauren Christy in front of another agent on Buying London , Lisa Rinna smash a wine glass in a bust up with Kim Richards on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills , Chrishell Stause tell Nicole Young she “rearranged [her] whole face” on Selling Sunset , and Monica Garcia call Lisa Barlow “old, ugly and a tramp stamp” on Real Housewives of Salt Lake City .
Sure, there were moments when I was worried about what all of this was doing to my brain, but, I reasoned, aren’t we all stressed about our screentime? Was bingeing three seasons of Love Is Blind any worse than scrolling TikTok until someone convinced me it was actually a good idea to make something called “Sleepy Chicken”? As it turns out, I was right to be concerned. Recently, while on the phone with my (wonderful) boyfriend, he was recapping his day at length (a necessary but boring tradition in many long-distance relationships), when I heard myself say the words, “This isn’t adding anything to my life, so I’m going to go,” then recoiled in horror. I’d essentially just parroted th.