Come, my child. Be restful in my arms. Worry not for mortal concerns: recessions, politics, a dying environment fueled further by your use of electronics. Here, you are safe with me, the TV show you rewatch religiously.
I may appear to you as The Office, Parks and Recreation, Friends, or whatever was popular when you last had a cable package. I take many forms to comfort the leagues of adults who rely on me after failing to meet their expectations of themselves. Lay down your weary head while I grant you peace with my predictable outcomes and my anxiety-free watching experience.
Cast away all doubt that the time you spend with me is meaningless. Comfort is the best of all human conditions. Do not concern yourself with the new, critically acclaimed shows that tempt you weekly. New experiences are scary, unlike the satisfaction you feel when you watch Jim and Pam’s first kiss for the 59th time.
Be free of your worries that the light of your screen is ruining your circadian rhythm as I cure the insomnia that I definitely didn’t cause. Sit and worship me until 2, maybe 3 in the morning. Recite the lines you have memorized like prayer until all perception of time fades away. Perhaps you’d be smarter if you didn't have my scripts embedded in every crevice of your brain, but then you’d be forced to face whatever you’re running from: intrusive thoughts, social faux pas, that thing you did in middle school you can’t let go of. You know the one.
With my divine influence, you can become so reliant on the ease you feel with me you'll grow imprinted into your crumb-ladden sectional. Why would you leave your house where loud noises, overhead lights, and small talk exist? Those dark recesses of the world are not privileged to my holy light. Instead, be soothed by my tales of old: Blessed Dwight’s quirky character growth, St. Chandler’s sarcastic banter, Exalted Ron’s stoic loyalty.
Let me guide you into placid stability. Who needs ambition when you have sanctity? In our world, everything will find its way to a satisfying, but not too fan-servicey, ending.
Be steadfast in your love for me. Let me become your personality. I’ll slowly eat away at all your cute anecdotes and funny quips until all you have left are decades-old references and that’s what she said jokes. Your friends will never get sick of that, and if they do, you still have me to return to at the end of the day.
In fact, speak my gospel to your friends and loved ones. Tell them of the serenity I bring once they just get through season one and like halfway through season two. Then they, too, will lend credence to your headcanon, your diatribe on Toby being the Scranton Strangler, or your Pheobe and Joey fanfic.
Convert the masses on my blessings! Let their wallets bleed in sacrifice as they pay for yet another subscription service to access my backlog. Peacock will be worth it, for the extended cuts! Their excessive, barely justifiable spending feeds my crusade! Go on, treat yo' self!
Be free of false idols! Only sinners claim, “your reliance on outdated television is a crutch.” What would revered prophet Mike Schur say to that? Think of every gift I’ve given you! Every social connection that was made that much easier because you had at least one favorite tv show in common!
You, my viewer, are my good shepherd. My “lobster,” my “lil' Sebastian.” Follow my commandments. Be not disillusioned by nonbelievers who say you are stuck between 2005 and 2015. Life was less complicated then. Live in the past, before you were forced to face the meaningless influence you’ll have on history or the universe.
The world may change, but I never will. And when you run out of hope or care, I’ll be there for you (when the rain starts to pour).