If you're anything like me, I bet you can barely contain yourself. The anticipation has been building faster than an Auckland motorway.
Yes ... New Zealand's next sorry attempt at reality TV is just days away. I made a special and very expensive visit to the doctor, to get anti-nausea meds. You can never be too prepared for Heartbreak Island. I'm assuming it's like the British version of Love Island ... only tackier, if that's possible.
Hold on to your knitting and number 8 wire as we're beamed to a land full of "beauty" but devoid of all brain.
A world where scantily clad guys and gals gather en masse to judge one another while taking exception at being judged themselves.
I can picture it now. Jet boats arriving, as emaciated females arrive carrying beauty cases filled with falsies of all descriptions.
Nails, eyelashes and whatever "boobage enhancer" that happens to be on trend. Some may have implants, which, fortunately, can double as flotation devices in the skillfully staged pool and beach scenes.
"Does my bum look big in this?" is a question we will no longer hear thanks to Kim Kardashian - a direct result of which - will mean we will, literally, see arse cheeks for weeks.
The men, not to be out-done, will have hairdos stiffer than other parts of their anatomy and abs from here to eternity. The truly gifted may even be sporting an eight-pack. Panic not, there's still time to order a defibrillator if you feel you're unable to cope with this level of manliness.
And if all that eye candy isn't sweet enough for you, can you imagine the dialogue? Each nightly episode will be jammed packed, I'm sure, with witty and intelligent repartee.
We'll sit like stunned mullets as they robustly discuss the GFC and more pressing political points facing New Zealand today.
We as mere mortal viewers, may even get the chance to text in with our answers to a cryptic crossword clue.
I know, I know. It's a stretch, but an old girl can dream.
An ad break seems like the appropriate time to head to the kitchen to put the porridge and prunes on to soak. Who doesn't want to be as regular as each riveting episode of Heartbreak Island?
Who knows ... the show could be its own laxative. A placebo effect to watching too much sh*t!
But then we will share in the laughter as they squeal with fear at the sight of a bug or moth - yes, men included - disgusted at the very thought of such a foreign invader, yet perfectly OK with swapping the saliva of several partners during the course of the show.
And in keeping with our infamous culture of binge drinking, the only thing more fluid than their sexual preference will be this blatant promiscuity aided and abetted by the flow of cheap wine and tacky rainbow coloured cocktails ... please, if there is a God, no mini paper umbrellas.
The result will be a predictable one. Tears, tantrums, and meltdowns - carefully constructed to create optimum drama and investment.
They'll be the prize biatch, the bully, the absolute tosser of a guy, the ugly drunk and a plethora of backstabbers, assuming that is, they've even managed to find the kitchen and locate a knife.
Should the show itself not prove enough, there will undoubtedly be the desperate-for-ratings TV and radio shows, only too happy to host the voted off "losers" as they blame editing and unfair judgement for their demise.
Until that is, they go home and get to see for themselves what sorry and truly shallow creatures they are. I shouldn't joke, like one of the hosts, they'll probably all go on to have lucrative careers in the media of some description.
Who knew being as loose as a goose could reap such dividends and if that's the case, sign me up for Peggy Squares In Recliner Chairs.
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