By now it’s old news — the writer’s strike is over and now thousands of anxious voyeuristic persons can once again live vicariously through the lives of Meredith and friends, the women of Wisteria Lane and the crime solvers of Grissom and Co.

Reality television can once again be put on the back burner and re-runs will become a soon forgotten dream. Or will they?

Since the writer’s strike has ended, many of our favorite shows are proclaiming the most horrid of phrases — season finale!

So many couch potatoes’ hopes of finding out if Meredith and McDreamy will finally be together forever and if Lincoln and Michael will finally make their acclaimed “Prison Break” must be once again put on hold until after the heat of summer has given way to brown leaves.

I will be the first to admit that I watch quite a bit a television, but I actually had high hopes for myself when I discovered the writers would be going on strike back in late October.

I pictured my TV acquiring a fine layer of dust as I read the classical works of Dickinson and Austen and writing the next great American novel.

However all my childish optimism was thrown out the proverbial window when I discovered how many marathons “America’s Next Top Model” could have.

Those studio heads are crafty little tricksters and I was soon bombarded with an array of mind-numbing “reality” television shows which I could not look away from.

I soon discovered that reality television is like a really bad accident, or someone eating live tarantulas — no matter how disturbing it is, you just can’t seem to look away.

Over the months I soon found my books gathering dust as my mind turned to goo from watching the likes of Tila Tequila search for love (male, female, she wasn’t picky) and anorexic blonds use their manicured claws to get a chance to become America’s Next Top Alcoholic… I mean, model.
But don’t judge me too quickly. A lot can actually be learned by these shows!

I learned from “America’s Next Top Model” that in order to take a good picture sometimes, “you gotta toot the booty.” I learned the fine art of conniving and backstabbing from various “Real World Road Rules” challenges.

From “Rock of Love,” I was taught that it is a bad idea to go to bed early when you are trying to win the heart of a hard-core, washed up rock star with diabetes. This also taught me that when you are dating someone with diabetes, if they go into shock you must jab them with penicillin right in the buttocks.

These shows teach us all how not to behave and allow for self-refection, upon which we can discover that maybe we are not quite as screwed up as we may have originally thought.

I may have my odd ticks and idiosyncrasies, but at least I don’t have New York’s mother and Hulk Hogan for a dad.

I also do not feel the need to expand my vocal horizons and inevitably have an angry British man named Simon tell me, “If you had lived 2,000 years ago and sung like that, I think they would have stoned you.”

I am secure enough in who I am to admit that although I see the horrors and long term effects of watching a lot of television, both reality and scripted (and in some cases scripted-reality), I will probably continue to watch my daily doses of television.

Already I have become somewhat addicted to “That’s Amore!” the newest got-to-find-love-right-this-second among fake-breasted, plastic and platinum women reality show.

It stars the cute little Italian Dominico who had his heart broken on “Shot at Love.” At least these shows are smart enough to recycle their talent and I will continue to watch.

But I draw the line at watching a show about the cockroaches trying to find true love, although I hear that plot line is in the works at FOX.