Our relationship lasted 5 years. Begun in 2007, the first few years had all the fleeting promise of young love – that giddy expectancy, the novel thrill of getting to know the unknown. I couldn’t get enough, and each week it only seemed to get better. The highs were so high, there barely seemed to be any lows.
This week that love died. That’s right, Gossip Girl and I are no more, and it took 103 episodes for us to get to this place. I would say “It’s not you, it’s me,” but my compatriots in all things GG, the writers of NYMag’s Vulture and ardent recappers since Day 1, have also jumped ship. As Muff might say, Gossip Girl has gotten wack. Perhaps it’s an inevitable conclusion to all ensemble dramas that start in high school. Just look at what happened to those poor fools from the original 90210. Dylan lost the hot, Brenda got the boot, Donna’s boobs got wonkier and wonkier, and Ian Ziering turned 45 overnight. David Silver was the only one who actually got better with age.
The demise of GG is something else though. I still remember the very first episode, sipping wine with Gayneighbor and howling at the screen. In later years my girl friends and I had a standing date on Monday nights to make taco salads while swooning over Chuck Bass. We had to sit on the floor Indian-style because Jess’ crappy Jennifer Convertibles micro-suede couch could only fit 2 people, uncomfortably. Things were so simple then.
But not even Ed Westwick can resurrect what was once hailed as The Greatest Show of Our Time. Perhaps I’ll think of you fondly as I do My So-Called Life. Who knows, maybe some day down the line I’ll Netflix you when I’m feeling nostalgic.
So this is goodbye. Take care of yourself, may you find a 2nd life in syndication on TBS.