KATHERINE GUTTMAN

Hi, my name is Katherine Guttman, and I'm a television addict. I think it's affecting my ability to function in the real world, mainly because I fell down leaving my apartment building on 10th Street, at approximately 2 p.m. And there were witnesses--a whole crowd of them.

I blame it on my annual change-of-season cold. I was taking a lot of quasi-narcotic cold medication, and I turned on daytime television. Day turned into evening and evening turned into night, which in turn became late night. Then it was morning again. So the glorious mind-numbing cycle continued. Even when my cold left, my ass stayed on my couch. I couldn't stop.

Soon I was sniffling during the long-distance company commercials. I was humming the background music for soap operas. I was convinced that if I just got to Jamaica or the Bahamas or Burlington Coat Factory my life would be complete. I also needed to go to ITT Tech, The Culinary Institute of New York, and Gibbs. Then I could get a job and a life as complete as the people on TV have.

But I don't watch crap all day long. I start off with the morning news shows. Then I hit the reruns until All My Children comes on at 1 p.m. At 2 p.m. I go outside. I run errands, get food, and go to the post office. I realize that I have a constant headache, bleary eyes, and I'm not able to look my fellow man in the face. Real people look back at me, you see. It's much safer with my television. What's more, on TV I can continue my relationship with Conan O'Brien. Only on TV. At 3 p.m. the trashy date show reruns come on and then at five o'clock I switch channels to watch 7th Heaven. I learn a lot of life lessons without having to actually go outside and participate in life. Then I watch the news. Then, instead of reruns of Friends, I watch Jeopardy. I'm improving my mind.

I thought I was fine. I saw no problem. With the television on, I applied to jobs, talked on the phone, wrote, emailed people, and slept. I rationalized that it was because I live alone. I needed the company.

I had an appointment with the eye doctor. Though an appointment at 10 a.m. would cut into some prime mid-morning television, a new prescription would mean clearer television viewing.

After the appointment, my eyes were dilated and it was hard to see. I felt like an alien discovering a new world. I couldn't seem to understand what anyone was saying. My sunglasses didn't fit over my eyeglasses and the sun was awfully bright that afternoon. I stumbled out of the subway at Astor Place, shielding my eyes, looking forward to my return to the dark quiet of my apartment, alone with All My Children. I kept my head down, glancing at the other pedestrians to guide me across the street. Everyone started across the intersection, so I did too. I heard a screech of tires, and I was on the ground. An old man pulled me to my feet, and I squinted at the bike messenger who had knocked me down. My feet hurt, my legs hurt, my ass hurt, and my pride throbbed. The messenger glared at me and I apologized in a hoarse voice. I fought back tears. I ducked my head and shuffled after the old man, who kept glancing at me with concern.

Back in my apartment I peeled my clothes off to find cuts and bruises all over my legs, arms, and feet. I sat in the bathtub and cried. But the television called to me. I put my pajamas back on and hiccuped to the couch, where I drifted into a blissful sleep between soap operas.

I can stop any time. I go out with my friends. I go to lunch, I go on job interviews. I even hang out in establishments that have no television. When I visit my parents, I don't watch television. I don't take Claritin or Advil Cold and Sinus, even though my television is telling me to.

Okay, I did order Epil-Stop late one night. But it made sense: I was tired of the little nicks that come with having wonderfully smooth legs. But I am still applying Neosporin to the area of skin that the Epil-Stop burned.

So it's 2 p.m. and I'm off to the post office. I am mailing a present for my friend's birthday. All My Children was a cliffhanger and my mind is on the show. I've decided to try to write for ABC soaps. I'd be great at it. I know all the characters. Maybe I could even star in the show. Oh, I'd be tops. My new glasses are great. Life is swell and it's cold enough to wear a long skirt and boots. As I walk out the front door of my building my feet quit working and I hit the pavement. A startled crowd of churchgoers on the corner gasp in horror. I bounce up and shuffle to my destination. The wait in the post office is agonizing. My palms are scraped, and I resist the urge to check beneath my skirt to survey the damage.

Back home, I hike up my skirt and gasp. My knees are shredded. Damn that Erica Cane! Once again, television has compromised my ability to function in the real world. So here I sit, confined to my couch because my knees are scabbing and stinging. I can't balance my laptop on my knees to type anymore--too painful. So I'm forced to watch TV. It takes my mind off my wounds. But I can stop any time--as soon as Rikki Lake is over.