I love hating on The Real Housewives of New York. I've seen every episode. Even the reunion show. My viewing started off as an innocent diversion before spiraling quickly into a dark habit. I'd DVR the new episode and watch it fast so I could erase it before my boyfriend came over. My best friend, a reality show addict herself, advised me to get out before I got too deep. "I can handle it," I told her. And myself. But I just couldn't stop chasing that dragon. It's too much fun disapproving of the Housewives' extravagant lifestyles, marveling at the intricacy of their bitchiness. I like to play a game as I watch: who is the most spoiled? The stupidest? The relatively least-stupidest? I began wagers with myself, whether someone was going to finally bitch-slap Kelly Bensimon, or if anyone would call child services on Alex and Simon Van Kempen for endangering the lives of their children by turning their house into a construction zone. But despite my best loathing, I discovered a sensation strange for reality TV had begun to seep in. Fondness. I was starting to really root for Bethenny Frankel.
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