I feel like the inspiration for that K’s Choice song from the nineties. It’s not a habit, it’s cool. I’m not an addict, baby. I can quit Twilight anytime I want to, man.
I thought my obsession was maybe just a weird side effect of my crazy year and diminished mental capacities. Reasonable theory, right? Then how come I am constantly faced with intelligent, empowered, profound women completely untouched by chemo who can’t put the crack pipe down, either?
Like every good addict, I’m convinced that it’s not really a “problem” because I don’t buy my drug. I’m one of those peeps that only shoots up with other people’s heroin at parties. It’s just a social crutch, man. It’s not like I’m holed up in my house selling off my belongings to get a hit.
Not that I don’t have my drug of choice right here by my side at all times. The books aren’t that well written. There’s really very little to like about the characters. Yet I can’t seem to bring myself to return them to their rightful owners. I refuse to buy my own copies, so I’ve amassed the series from various other junkies that were willing to part with one or two for a brief period of time. Of course if any of them suggest I return their copy, I turn into a snarling mangy junkyard dog guarding my dinner from an interloper. I wouldn’t suggest trying it if you value your fingers at all.
Then I ripped the soundtrack. Me, a former member of the music industry engaging in behavior that brought about the downfall of major labels. It’s not quite blowing some pimp for a little bump, but it’s not real far either. Mom must be so proud.
Again, the soundtrack is ok at best. Well, that Muse song is pretty damn sexy and I get lost in the Iron & Wine song consistently. But then it’s full of douche bags like Linkin Park. Somehow even the ridiculously cliche songs are enjoyable because I’m still transported to Forks. If the acid’s bad, an addict will still drop it, right?
Then there’s the movie – the poorly acted disaster that I can’t possibly send back to the Netflix warehouse. I’ve been debating canceling my subscription for months now, but one thing is stopping me. I can’t part with the disc. I’ve had the DVD since March. For over three months I’ve held the disc hostage in my home for the monthly fee of $20. The thought of mailing it back actually triggers spasms of panic. You know, casual, perfectly healthy and well adjusted panic.
I discussed the issue with a friend over lunch yesterday. She claims to fully dislike the movie, but has watched it over seven times in the past two months. She described in vivid, tormented detail how she had been watching the movie, yet again, last week. As the credits rolled and she started coming down from her high, she reached some sort of breaking point and ran to the player to rip out the disc. Still warm from the player, she shoved the disc in it’s red sleeve and sealed the self-adhesive strip. Instantly she was filled with doubt and started toying with the envelope, gently pulling at the seam. In an moment of tremendous strength, she put on her shoes and sprinted to the nearest mailbox. With triumph, she threw her demon into the cold blue metal prison.
“Wow,” I breathed in awe. “I just don’t think I’m ready.”
“Me either, I just updated my que and sent in some other movie so I can get it back.”
My friend Matt finds this phenomenon particularly fascinating. “You’ve bought the disc three times over, why don’t you just get your own copy?” That would be crossing the line, don’t you see? There’s nothing unhealthy about my obsession as long as I don’t actually procure my own stash. Plus I don’t want to know what’s on the second disc of the limited edition two-disc DVD set! I’ll never leave the house again! You don’t give a pot head heroin, for the love of all that is HOLY!!
Sheesh, Edward would understand.