Let’s talk for a minute about how many free shots I can expect. Because if it’s like, ten per night, sure— I’ll hook up with the other black person in the house. But if it’s like, ten per week, I have a boyfriend back home. And are we talking well liquor or top shelf? The viewers want me at a three-drink minimum, my forehead dipped in Russian gasoline. After the ceremony, west coast viewers are invited to complimentary punch and handshaking on the church patio. Later that night I wash up on an Atlantic beach, push against Eastern screens like an open mouth. My dad used to watch and say I’d be perfect and since I’ve started drinking he says it louder. I make great television. There isn’t hope but there is something that happens when people on television leave the house to go outside and there is no background noise, only colors brighter than the liquid rolling in their stomachs. I love my viewers as the sun— the ones who watch me cuss in subtitles, teenage boys mid-jerk, mothers who warn their daughters but shine quietly, remembering, siblings and cellmates who don’t speak during commercials, odd couples, bad little kids, old people who don’t know how to change the channel, viewers who are stoned, hopped up, buttered, hungry, wasted, full of acid or chicken or shit. Give me a drink and I will do a service.