During football season, Sundays became my detox day. When I physically couldn’t immerse myself in a myriad of texts, I plopped on the couch with the only thing that’s been there for me my whole life—my boob tube.

When I was plagued with those post-game 14-hour hangovers I watched a ton of TV. It was really the only thing I could do when my head was throbbing from the 46,000 Miller Lights I drank before, during and after the Badger game.

If I consciously decided to be a hermit the entire Sunday, I was aware that nothing good was going to be on TV because it wasn’t a Thursday and I couldn’t look at Pam and Jim—JAM—hold hands on “The Office.”

So, I watched a lot of reality trash and it slowly eroded any of my remaining brain cells. But at least these shows were slightly entertaining—“Flavor of Love 2,” “Shot of Love with Tila Tequila,” and “The Girls Next Door”—they all have to do with finding love, and that’s really an admirable thing. (That was a joke.) But if nothing more, these shows have some quality cleavage shots.

But even when I am dry heaving, I can’t bring myself to watch “The Hills.” It’s just not an option. I mean, yes, I’ve seen it, but it was a shameful experience. The fact that people make an appointment one day a week to watch a bunch of well-dressed, mildly mentally challenged broads go to Starbucks and pretend to work at Teen Vogue is utterly perplexing.

My life is boring enough as it is, and television is supposed to fulfill the need to escape, to laugh or be moved. But “The Hills” characters literally do nothing worth noting. They shop. They talk about shopping. Congratulations, you’ve now wasted 30 minutes.

Each episode follows the same simple format: “Drama” erupts through the Hills. Some phone calls are made on some really blinging phones. The conversations are sprinkled with “likes,” giggles and references to Brody, Spencer and Heidi. Someone might even receive a text message or an IM. The episode concludes with a meeting at an undisclosed Starbucks location, where two people “confront each other.” There is little or no resolution, but it is accompanied with a pseudo-underground pop song.

I’m not judging the people who watch this show or even the characters—because, honestly, they are more affluent, dumber versions of my friends and me. No, I don’t have a Blackberry, but I do waste time picking apart each seemingly enormous event in my life with my girls. But I also don’t have a contract with a major cable network.

If I had my own show, it would also have a standard structure: Every morning I make coffee and call my mother, who updates me on any “dramz” in the Chicago burbs. The conversation is sprinkled with “ohmigods,” “loves yous!” and “When are you going to send me more wads of cash?”

Then, sometimes I pretend to go to class. Later that day, I receive a text message from a somewhat overweight bartender. My Aunt might IM me. I make a Lean Cuisine for dinner and then proceed to eat an entire cottage cheese tub. The show concludes with scenes of me exiting College Library.

If you consider “The Hills” a quality program, you have to wonder why. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think we want our generation’s cultural contribution to be a montage of shiny hair, beastly large sunglasses and staged backstabbing.

Now that football season has ended, I can’t help but feel a little relieved to actually get off the couch and live a life that doesn’t involve eating boxes of Cheez-Its. Perhaps I’ll start living a real, productive life that actually warrants a camera crew to document it, you know, just in case.

If you’re mad at Ashley for bashing your guilty pleasure, just send her a backhanded “loves you” at aaspencer@wisc.edu.