the Fringe Effect!

I just realized belatedly than the Season Finale of my "most favourite show ever" happened last week. I'm not sure how I missed it to be honest, especially since I watched that episode at the edge of my seat. There's the bit of me that hopes maybe my 'googling' skills have diminished since the last time I employed them and that I am just pulling up inaccurate results. It can't be. As pathetic as it is I feel myself pouting. I'm addicted to several shows (and I don't think some of them do much for my 'coolness' rating) Fringe, Dr. Who (which is impossible to watch while I am away at Uni because the only British TV channel they rock here is BBC News. There isn't even BBC America, so I must suffer through), Warehouse 13 (new season starts soon!), Bones, all of the USA's original shows (and yes, I mean all) and One Life to Live... (can't believe I just admitted that in public). I think of all of these though Fringe appeals to my Fantasy loving soul. Every time I watch it, I sit there thinking that there is only one way the show could be better: if it were a book. Things always come right back down to that for me. I remember there was this campaign at home to increase the interest in reading in children. The gist of it was that your imagination can take you anywhere in the world you want to go, you can hang with anyone you want to hang with and the best way to exercise your imagination was through reading. I think it is right on. Possibly the only other thing that exercises your imagination like reading does is being an only child. I must tell you that when I got tired of going on covert secret operations with my imaginary friend (I've never be the imaginary tea sort of girl), I started writing about them. I still remember the first thing I wrote... a pretty depressing tale about a kid who was kidnapped after saying 'Hi' to a stranger; something that it was drilled in my head not to ever do. I mean even Barney endorsed it. Although looking back, in 1996 / 1997 in Antigua, the beautifully, amazing island that is home to me... the likelihood of me or the main character in my story being kidnapped by a stranger was slim to none. But, I digress. So this short story I wrote when I was six or seven involved a little boy being dragged away by a vagrant man after innocently saying hi. Looking back on my portrait of his kidnapper now, I've realized how stereotyping is ingrained in us from such a tender age. I mean after all Ted Bundy was not vagrant-like in the least. For some reason in my story-world, the Police Department had a special division comprised of six and seven year olds (because we were so much better at deducing certain crimes I guess :D) After the crime was called in, they rang in their specially Kiddie Task Force comprised of my two imaginary friends and my alter-ego and we solved the crime! :)
After my mum read this several things probably crossed her mind: God, my child needs some serious help or maybe she was thrilled that I had learned to take this not talking to strangers thing seriously. Whatever crossed her mind though, she encouraged to write down any of the stories that ever popped into my mind, no matter how "interesting" they were. And you know what, I've been doing it ever since. It has become a part of who I am.
Maybe I need not be so distressed that I missed the memo Fringe's season finale has passed. If I want some incredibly dangerous and fast paced fantasy based world to fall into., maybe I should call up my entire room full of new 'imaginary friends' and create my own.

Tschüss!!