I like to think I have good taste. I appreciate theater. I thrive on artsy indie movies. I watch upstanding shows like “CSI”, “Weeds” and…“A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.”

It’s becoming apparent that no matter how much people value plot and character development, they’ll almost always be drawn to trashy reality TV. When facing SAT scores and a never-ending mountain of homework, who wants to psychoanalyze some whiny character’s motives? Who wants to feel smart? Not me. I would much rather laugh at Daisy and Amber as they catfight for the love of an aging frontman in “Rock of Love II”.

Although classy reality shows do exist (see: “Project Runway,” “Top Chef”), television—VH1, specifically—has recently seen an upsurge in idiocy. The station has repeatedly milked the idea of putting washed-up celebrities in houses full of romantic competitors. These competitors must complete series of arbitrary tasks, all to win the objects of their desire (and break up with them two months later).

The hilarity of these shows comes from the ironic focus on authenticity. In every single season, the celebrities emphasize their need for someone who’ll love them “fo’ realz” and the contestants mercilessly cuss at whoever they feel is a fake. Yet about half the eliminations occur because a contestant couldn’t sexualize their image enough to outshine the others, and the other half take place due to inevitable catfights that reveal who’s more of a psycho. With booze, producer intervention and stripper poles thrown into the mix, how can anyone expect to have a meaningful relationship arise? We all know it’s nearly impossible. I know it’s impossible.

So obviously, I still find myself rooting for people like a schmuck. For example, I began watching “A Shot at Love” simply to laugh at it. There was no way I was going to miss a show pitting guys and lesbians in a contest for the love of professional MySpace hussy Tila Tequila. For the first few episodes, I couldn’t get past the absurdity. (Spin-the-bottle? Seriously?) But by the final episode, when Tila had to choose between good American boy Bobby and shy firefighter Dani, I found my brain yelling, “No! Bobby is clearly not right for you, Tila! Dani totally gets you, and think of the social impact of choosing the girl over the guy!”

Social impact. It wasn’t a proud moment for me. But that’s the beauty of these shows: they hook you with a wild premise and lull you into really believing it. You become absorbed in the improbability of it all. You briefly escape your own life, in which the concept of responsibility actually exists. Of course, a big part of the appeal is the train wreck factor—you just can’t look away. Still, bizarrely enough, you end up caring about the people on that train. Through careful editing, the producers slowly reveal the personalities behind the plastic surgery. The characters are made interesting enough to engage, and two-dimensional enough to allow viewers to jump to conclusions and hurl accusations at the TV set. It’s a brilliant combination.

So instead of hiding my love of trashy reality television, I’ve decided to embrace it. Yes, I’ve been fooled by the producers; yes, I’m polluting my brain. But I’m not going to pretend that I don’t enjoy my fix of stupid drama. I can tell you what’s quality and what’s garbage. I still have good taste.

I’m just willing to abandon it.