I grew up with a remote in one hand and a bowl of cereal in the other, dedicating countless hours to the noble pursuit of TV watching. As a kid, Saturday mornings were sacred rituals, spent absorbing cartoons like they were gospel. Afternoons transformed into epic marathons of sitcom reruns, game shows, and “educational” programming that mostly taught me how to outsmart siblings at trivia.

By the time adolescence rolled around, I had upgraded to a full-fledged pop culture aficionado. I didn’t just watch shows—they analyzed them, passionately debating why Cheers had the greatest ensemble cast or why Quantum Leap was an underrated gem. Family gatherings often turned into impromptu lectures on the evolution of laugh tracks or the brilliance of 1970s detective shows.

In college, while others studied chemistry or business, I majored in “Late-Night Comedy and the Art of Binge-Watching.” I honed their skills as a TV historian by devouring obscure cult classics and chasing deep dives into the golden age of television. “Research,” I called it—others called it an addiction.

Now, with dreams of becoming a bona fide television historian, I dedicates my days to chronicling the highs and lows of the small screen. Armed with encyclopedic knowledge and a questionable amount of streaming subscriptions, I’m on a mission to document the magic of TV. I firmly believe every show has something to teach us—even if it’s just how to perfectly time a commercial break snack run.