I don’t know why I did that. I think I don’t know what I’m doing, or the bad forces of unlisted task-avoidance guide me when I click more deeply. When I was carelessly and eagerly selected, I had no idea what the existential fear of Pandora was that I was opening up to ‘download the viewing function’.
Choosing in 2020 is so far impossible. I could not distinguish one month from another in my soupy memory; I don’t know if summer really happened. Maybe it’s better. It opened in Excel, which is a threatening format. There, in hundreds of endless columns over hundreds of treacherous little cells, were the clear facts of my 2020 Netflix view. This is the secret history of my infection.
It all started the way it started, with Love is Blind, the couple had to agree to get married without looking at each other. In the early days of locking it was inevitable: sweet hope, savior, absurd. The epidemic began to change its tectonic relationships. We saw happy results coming out; We thought everything would explode soon.
But it got worse, and then came Tiger King, a fitting accompaniment to the growing madness of a world. Oh we laughed, laughed, laughed, so there was no need to think critically about ethical dynamics. We needed it. Our primary scream in the Tiger King abyss: what’s going on?
I paused the beep show (the familiar old lullaby) only to see the infection. I watched Shits Creek and passed the first season like I said. I tried Oscar – too much.
Then there was April and Too Hot to Hand, in which hot young singles were placed in a villa and not allowed to stalk each other in order to win money. This elegant Skatenfruit distracted us from our own frustration for a while.
May: I finished Shitz Creek and texted my friends that the first season was worth pushing. I looked at the Jeffrey Epstein document and then caught up with some chapters called Sweet Magnolias. June: I wandered, lost, did not start and finish Anna Carina; Many BBC jokes; Boldark. I try to remember one thing that happened in June, I try to connect the data to memory. Do not tell the groom. Nothing.
July. I watched Indian matchmaking, couldn’t think or talk about anything else in a nutshell, and it never crossed my mind – probably I stumbled upon the sales sunset, not knowing that I was crossing a castle in the sand, something I had drawn to stop from entering class-one American-scripted reality-shows myself, a Everything happened a year ago and the speaking leaders describe their story in current history. I understand that these women are very dramatic about normal life events; When someone drinks a cup of tea or walks into a store, ‘breaking the rules’ can provoke blind rage.
September The Social Crisis, which was different for me, so I turned it off: now is not the time to challenge my credibility on the internet. October brought Emily to Paris and Rebecca: the feverish dream of delicious cruelty. We lost weeks down the deck, where we ended up: it follows the crew on a pleasant, distant 2012 on a super boat. Even if you occasionally live a master class and work on controlling the locks, the rich and the famous mess Weave is just as common as it gets. The bottom of the deck says life is not fair: it’s the only TV that can feel real anymore.
“Do you still see …?” Netflix asks.
“Always,” I whisper.
Sunday Indo Life Magazine