WHEN: September 26, 2014, 7:34 pm. (Week 39, September 21-27.)
WHERE: In my apartment in Portland, ME.
FORMAT: DVD on a 19” AOC LED computer monitor; digital download on an iPhone 3.
PHYSICAL AND MENTAL STATE: Tired, headache.
Alright, Avatar. It’s just you and me. I agreed to watch you every week for a year. I thought I would wipe the floor with your ass. I had, after all, made it through High Fidelity without difficulty. Jurassic Park was a breeze. But I didn’t anticipate how much I wouldn’t care. Don’t get me wrong, Avatar, I still hate you. I really do. I don’t hate you any less than I did on January 1st. I still find you hollow, tactless, and offensive to the pallet. But now, I just don’t want to think about you.
I’m tired of pointing out your plot holes. Do not believe for one second that my silence implies that I’ve covered all your faults; there’s so much more to be said. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that there is no reason for Selfridge to have thrown Jake and Augustine in the brig after their attempt to convince the Na’vi to leave Home Tree fails. (They did exactly what he asked, but he still has them arrested. Why?) I could write up a nice little spiel about it. I’m not going to, though. You don’t deserve my higher brain functions, Avatar, you just don’t.
I’ve been trying, Avatar, I’ve really been trying. I’ve written conspiracy theories I don’t believe. I’ve dissected the reasons behind your incoherent plot developments. But my pace has slowed. I started hacking up sad, half-digested pieces of sarcastic bile. And it’s gotten worse. For the last several weeks, I’ve been dry-heaving, unable even to write ironic non-jokes. I just can’t talk about you Avatar, I’ve had it.
Thirteen more weeks, Avatar. Thirteen more weeks. I haven’t given up. I’m going to keep limping along. You can’t break me, Avatar. Goddammit.