Genoa City was home to a miracle to end all miracles yesterday, when Victoria Newman came out of her paper mache caused coma, ending months of awkward, fabricated stories being told to her unconscious form. Don't let her blank stare, JT's confused "...who?" expression or Nikki's half-hearted tears fool you, it was actually good news.
Especially when one considers that her family abandoned all hope of modern medicine aiding her recovery in any way. Her room was filled with lots of official medical apparatuses, but...she wasn't actually hooked up to any of them. They were like four feet away from her.
It's as if they just said to themselves (and I would not fault them for doing so), "Well, she's been in a coma for months after being beaned in the head with a ball of Styrofoam. If she hasn't recovered now, she's not going to, so why are we even bothering?"
So that happened.
I feel like I was supposed to be supremely affected by the entire thing, but I wasn't. And let me tell you something, there are few people in the world who get teary eyed more easily than me. So the fact that this late-January miracle left me cold says volumes about how anti-climactic it was. There are three possibilities:
- It was kind of lame that she got out of the coma as quickly as she went into it and that after a couple of minutes of discombobulation she was fine.
- Amelia Heinle, lovely though she may be, just does not work as Victoria and reads as some random character who doesn't know how to apply lipstick properly. There's no there there. She's so bland, which Victora Effing Newman never should be.
- In the interest of fairness, it's entirely possible that I've become dead inside, a predicament that I will no doubt try to blame on Lynn Marie Latham, Jill Farren Phelps or a combination of the two.
Or maybe I was just distracted by the fact that the entire episode was Cleavage on Parade...