In an continued effort to not stress myself out with my television viewing habits, I’ve worked my way through The Mary Tyler Moore Show, a good chunk of Columbo, the collected tv and gameshow works of Ms. Betty White and now, as if my whole life was leading up to this: I’m four seasons deep into Murder, She Wrote.
It’s the perfect cozy mystery show, and honestly who is surprised?
It was something I watched as a child, but not enough that I remember specific episodes really clearly, more just the general premise.
And then, of course, you gotta spiral into the whole filmography of Angela Lansbury, so I watched Bedknobs and Broomsticks. And at the time I was watching it, I was like this is pretty cute, she looks good, I like the songs and then it was over and time to move on with my life, but I HAVE been thinking about it obsessively ever since.
DID ANGELA LANSBURY USED TO BE SUPER HOT? I think so, my dude.
ANYWAY, I’m also obsessed with the notion that at some point, good old J.B. Fletcher, the most observant lady of the 1980s, must come to the secret internal conclusion that if she meets a group of new people, one of them is going to die. And yet, it does not stop her from constantly traveling and exposing a larger and larger sphere of people to the hooded, cloaked, and scythed portent that is making her acquaintance.
J.B. is gonna J.B. and if you don’t want to get murdered, you best be getting out of her way.
As a part of my spiral, I started reading This Book, bought This T-Shirt, and read This Fic. Because it’s not liking things if you don’t become immediately obsessed on an intense and upsetting level.