Has it already been a year?  Can it really be that time when the original Housewives – the ones with the really blonde hair who wear the really tight tank tops emblazoned with the really sparkly rhinestone crucifixes – land back on the airwaves with a resounding thud?  Did my bargaining session with God not work nearly as well as I thought it had?

(Dear God:  I know you’re incredibly busy and all with the rampant rising racism spreading through our cities and the growth of ISIS and the reboot of Full House, but I’m a very sweet girl and I only tell people who really deserve it to fuck off and I even recently started running so I’d live longer and look better in a bikini and I think that very clearly illustrates just how hard I try to be a good person.  Anyway, I don’t mean to take up your time, but if you can see to it that the Orange County Housewives never return to our airwaves, I’d really appreciate it.  And – as a contingency plan – should you have already bartered with Sir Andy Cohen the way I believe you must have and the show is once again a go, could you maybe fling Vicki Gunvalson into a bubbling volcano before production officially starts?  Because I’ve waded my way through painful deaths of people I love and confusing levels of heartbreak and accidental viewings of that new Bravo show about the tit-enhanced women of Long Island that the network snuck into the sneak peak of The Real Housewives of New York, but I’m not sure that I’m really strong enough to watch Vicki discuss her love tank ever again and – just in case reincarnation is real – no version of me in any other lifetime will have the strength either.  Thanks again, God.  And thank you for the blessings you’ve already bestowed unto me, such as knowing how to be loyal to those I care for and for having my own set of tits that need no enhancement whatsoever.  Please tell my dad and my grandmothers that I said hello.  Amen.)