I tend to pile up my passions.
This tendency has moderated—somewhat—with age, but when I was younger, if I liked a band, I bought all of their albums; an author, all of her books; an actor, all of his shows. I was never particularly this way with food (which probably spared me an eating disorder), but I often could never figure out what was too far until I was too far gone.
There are problems with this approach, of course, which is why I try to keep tabs on myself. But that doesn’t always work.
See: Netflix.
It’s not the DVDs which are sucking me in, but the reason I thought that a Netflix subscription made a kind of fiscal sense: the streaming.
That fucking streaming. I had been more-or-less content to watch Buffy as it became available on Hulu, but when all episodes were unleashed on Netflix. . . just call it the Lost Weekend. Or two. Or three.
I liked Angel well enough, too, and hey, there it is! Firefly! And then someone suggested MI-5 and another weekend gone. (I did end up burning out on MI-5, but I’ll probably dip—ha!—plunge back in later.)
Now it’s Bones. I had watched the first season back when I had a t.v., and I happened to have caught a couple of episodes from season 5 on Hulu. But, yes, seasons 1-4 are on Netflix.
Which means my ass has been in front of my external monitor watching Brennan and Booth bicker over bodies.
And I got shit to do!
Christ.
AbsurdBeats 