Oh, the agony of defeat.
My husband is hunting. It is the very rare evening I have to myself, so I decide to find a good chick flick, or something along those lines.
I flip through the free movies: Saw (when this freak show first came out, the commercial sent me screaming from my own house in terror) Armageddon (please) Moonstruck (seriously, with what I know now) and then I see Blonde, the Netflix production that just came out about Marilyn Monroe.
Did anyone on planet Earth make it through more than five minutes? Seriously, the most depressing crap I’ve ever seen-and I’ve seen things, people.
For fuck’s sake, there must be something I can watch.
Flustered, I smoke a joint and regroup.
Hey, I’ve always wanted to see that series, and Dwain would never go for it, no way, no how.
I don’t watch television, with the very rare exception. We’re watching Six Feet Under (I can’t recommend it enough, it’s fabulous) and Ozark (addicted, admittedly) and we do stream Curb Your Enthusiasm.
I get comfy on the couch and push the play button.
Everything is ruined, now.