In my debut column, I choose not to write about President Obama’s first State of the Union, the fight for public health care, or the rising cost of oil. No, while I understand the importance of political discourse, I will be discussing something a bit less controversial, but something that nevertheless affects us each and every day.

Do you love television? If you are one of those that claims to have seen every episode of Lost but cannot complete the original cast member quiz on Sporcle, put your hand down. You’re not die-hard. But, if you felt a heart fluttering thrill while re-watching the same 30-second scene 37 times to make sure that the Dharma Initiative symbol was actually on that hatch, I’m your girl.

When I was younger, my parents determined that watching television during the week was unacceptable. Afternoons were to be dedicated to things like riding bikes, reading books and smelling flowers; I blatantly ignored this decree. Other kids could go to Central Park; I was going to watch Gulla Gulla Island, dammit.

My habit only grew from there. I was a deceitful little fucker, doing what I could to get around their supreme rule. Eventually, they caved, recognizing my perseverance, and stopped their oppressive games. The Dan and Alisa Doctoroff regime had fallen and I was to reap the benefits.

Flash-forward 12 or so years: I have arrived at Yale, television and toll-free Comcast number in hand. I thought it was going to be so easy; it would be an understatement to say that I was wrong. There is nothing more impossible than dealing with the so-called tech experts sitting pretentiously in aerodynamic leather swivel chairs in their office on Chapel Street. If you ever pass by that building, do me a favor, pee on it. Cause them a little trouble so that anyone who has ever spoken to them on the phone can feel vindicated.

Television is more than just a relaxing distraction: It is education. Honestly, you are never going to learn the things that The West Wing teaches you unless you spend your entire life on Wikipedia.

But if you haven’t dedicated yourself to a life of television love, I warn you now of what your soul’s investment might bring. Your life will never be the same. Spending a Saturday night watching the Kennedy Center Honors instead of going to DKE Late Night is really going destroy your social life. No one wants to hang out with that kid.

But because I am that kid, and there’s nothing I can do about it now, I send you another warning. So regardless of your current situation, stay as far away from Comcast Digital Cable as you can. It are not your friend, even though it may give you a number and tell you to call if you need anything. Don’t be deceived.

I was, and there isn’t anything I can do about it now. Now they have screwed me. They have taken my education and my entertainment.

The epic struggle of which I speak has involved upwards of 15 phone calls; seven visits from alleged service people; and multiple screaming matches. Before you call me a persnickety bitch, why don’t you go turn on your television and try to gain access to the Holy Grail that is MTV2? I won’t even say I told you so; it’s just too obvious.

As I sit here typing this, I am waiting for Comcast. I am very much still in the throes of conflict. During my Intro Micro lecture today, my phone lit up and buzzed, the name “Comcast” flashing on the screen. My heart was all aflutter. I answered, a woman called to confirm my cable set-up appointment date. In hushed tones, I assured her that I would of course be in my room between the hours of two and five p.m., waiting diligently for the cable man to arrive. As much as I want to throw the cable box out of my window onto the chipped stone of the L-Dub courtyard, I know that is something I am incapable of doing.

This journey started out with a simple phone call and ended in tears. I am a slave to Comcast. I am the stupid girl waiting for her asshole boyfriend to follow through with a long-awaited date, or call on a Friday night. But he never calls. And so I go to sleep, alone, with the malfunctioning remote clenched tightly in my hand. If Comcast ever does fix my cable, maybe our relationship will change. Maybe they can fix my broken heart. But for now all I ask Comcast employees to do is what they should have done a month and a half ago: their job.