Every year—do you remember this?—every year, you reach that point: That marathon point where you cannot really give a shit, but you somehow keep going.

Good on you. Strong, faithful, brilliant you. Knowing that the Final Two will be Cody and Victoria, and that's the least disgusting possible choice, and what that means about us all. But how they'll praise you, oh: For giving a shit, when your whole body just wants to lie down. For walking, still.

And maybe one day Big Brother will smile down on you, you and all your loyalty, three hours a week plus the extracurricular, and He'll ask: For what? What was it all for?

And you'll say: This is not my first fucking rodeo. Get off. My. Back. Ya frootloop dingus bustafooligan.