Seeing as I have been trapped under an overwhelming pile of “meh” lately, I have had zero motivation to write, read, exercise, or do anything requiring greater effort than opening a box of Wheat Thins. When I am depressed, my energy drains faster than the L.A. power grid, and what little ‘juice’ I have is reserved for loving and caring for my short people.*
*And personal grooming, because being depressed is no excuse for bad hair, people.
Suffice to say, once the shorties are in bed, my evenings consist of lying on the couch, crying like a fat girl at a Bieber concert and watching my already abysmal taste in television programming nosedive like a Uruguayan aircraft into a snowy mountaintop. I have always been a big fan of any show like “Bridezillas” or “Intervention” that makes me feel so much better about myself as a person, but when I’m feeling particularly self-loathing, there is no better remedy than some true crime.*
*And if the show involves a “re-enactment” replete with puerile scripting and ham-handed attempts at acting? L-O-V-E. If that shit doesn’t crack open the safe where you lock away your joy then you need to lube up the dial a little, Betty Buzzkill.
I have always had a sick fascination with the macabre. “Snapped” on Oxygen? You go, girls. Serial killers? Can’t get enough. Mass cult-related genocide? Pass the Kool-Aid. In fact, the other day someone asked me, “Do you want to hear something totally jacked up?” and the first thought that shot through my mind was “Why, yes. . .yes, I do”. And for the record, starting ANY conversation with that query will instantaneously garner my full and undivided attention.*
*You had me at ‘hello’.
In general, my penchant for true crime drama is limited to Ann Rule biopics and shitty LifeTime movies, but every now and then I like to find my moral ‘line in the sand’ and crush it into oblivion just to remind myself that it still exists. And that is where the Investigation Discovery channel sashays into the picture.
Most people either don’t watch or admit to watching Court TV and Investigation Discovery (IDTV) trial coverage because of that whole. . .oh, what do you call it. . .dignity and self-respect thing. Yeah, I don’t have that. What I DO have is a white trash streak a country mile wide, coupled with a curiosity so morbid it would make Stephen King flinch. Generally, IDTV focuses on the more obscure stalker-y crimes and ‘love triangles gone wrong’, but for the last few months I have had the singular joy of watching the coverage of the Jodi Arias trial.
For those of you who are ‘so 2000 and late’ or who actually have active social lives and haven’t been following the trial with the veracity of Nancy Grace on crystal meth, Jodi Arias was apparently dating Travis Alexander for four months before he broke up with her. Arias then proceeded to stalk Alexander, hacking into his Facebook account, breaking into his home, and slashing his tires. When her batshit crazy douchebaggery acts of seduction were fruitless, Arias sauntered into Travis Alexander’s bathroom, where she then shot him in the head, stabbed him 27 times, cut his throat, and left him to bleed out in the shower. . .after she took a few photos. I get it. We’ve all had our hearts broken. We’ve all had those break-ups that make us feel just two boiled bunnies away from going the full Glenn Close, but for the love of the Baby Jeebus that is some jacked up Hitchcock shit right there, y’all.
Initially, Jodi Arias told the court that she’s been violently abused by her parents, and then claimed that she suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder from Travis Alexander insisting on zip-tying her to a tree and cornholing her while she wore a Little Red Riding Hood costume.*
*I swear to God, you can’t make this shit up.
Apparently, the only recourse when one’s boyfriend wants to go all Big Bad Wolf on your ass in some “Once Upon a Time” fantasy is to bludgeon, shoot, and repeatedly stab them. . .while taking pictures. . .good to know.
I get that Jodi Arias probably had a pretty whickety-whack childhood, and Travis Alexander may have had more kinks than an arthritic contortionist, but I find it very hard to believe that EVERYONE who has “issues” resorts to homicide. Whenever someone stabs their ex-boyfriend in a shower stall, or opens fire in a high school cafeteria, the first thing the expert witnesses claim is that it’s because they had a troubled childhood. Bitch, please. My sister used to give me so many wedgies that I have the Underoos logo permanently embedded in my perineum and you don’t see me making a skin suit out of my neighbor’s torso. So when the ACLU proves that they don’t have A-C-L-U-E by attempting to acquit some crazy son of a bitch for, oh. . .I don’t know. . .drowning their children in the back of a station wagon or sinking their pregnant wife in the San Francisco Bay because Uncle Eddie gave them the “bad touch”, I get a little “judgy”.
Now that Jodi Arias is enjoying an indeterminate vacation at La Casa Grande, she has plenty of time to market her line of “Survivor” T-shirts and ball caps, the proceeds of which, she claims will go to “stomp out domestic violence”.*
*Her choice of words. . .no, the irony is not lost on me either.
Arias also offered to cut off all of her hair this week to donate to Locks of Love. Now, color me malignant, but I would rather go around with my hairless chemo-coif shining bright like a diamond than slap ANY of her crazy on my head. At least she’s making an effort, desperate as it may be, to try to redeem her name. But in the end she is what she is: fodder for voyeuristic jackals like myself who need to point fingers at the miscreants of this world to feel just a little better about our own indiscretions.
Do I think Jodi Arias is a troubled individual? Absolutely. Do I also think she’s crazier than a shithouse rat? Hell to the yeah. But it’s people like her, and Scott Peterson, and Charlie Manson, and Casey Anthony that make me feel a little more sane in this insane world. And these last few weeks I’ve needed that. Now, someone hand me the remote; that episode of “Swamp Murders” ain’t gonna watch itself, yo.