The guilty pleasure is by nature transitory, devoured and forgotten. Zen-like, it inhabits only the present, and there’s something pure about that. But the most provocative appeal is the guilty pleasure’s lack of apology for its exploits, something Gossip Girl perfected. That lack of apology makes me relieved, entertained, full of the best kind of irreverence and amnesia. Glamour trumps difficulty. Real life rules do not apply, nor do real life concerns need revelation or solution. Instead, bagging our sulky, brooding bad boy is everything we hoped it would be. We cultivate fraudulent identities, survive airplane crashes, and publish short stories in The New Yorker when we are 19. It’s not about catharsis or recognition. Ultimately it makes me wonder if the content, and analysis therein, is beside the point. The point is the ritual of the pleasure: the wine I pour, the blanket I pull over myself, the quiet of my apartment when I’m alone (you have to be alone to watch Gossip Girl). It all feels so good it’s outrageous. There, outside of itself, is the guilty pleasure’s true power, in the spaces it creates.

Chuck BassChuck Bass

RIP Gossip Girl: Attempts at Reconciling Guilt & Pleasure