I'm not sure if it's a way to escape the life stressors that threaten to dip me in gravy and gobble me up, or if I can blame it on the ever increasing foot pain that demands more surgery.
And my children have become little slug babies.
Netflix is possibly the devils juice of technology...although I suppose better to be tempted with endless episodes of Dexter than crack and the allure of a life of prostitution.
See, my bedroom is on the main floor of my oldasfuck house...and right next to the living room. Our migration into my bed began innocently enough: there was a power surge one night that rendered my satellite box only displaying varying shades of purple...the blue ray player no longer accepted the damn Netflix code...the springs in our couch have completely given way so one might as well sit on the floor with the dog hair dust balls...Jesus came to me in a dream and announced that my bed was like the holy grail of Alberta so I should revere and spoil it with my
Thus began the whole "how many vegetative humans can you fit in a king size bed?" quest. The answer is ALL THE VEGGIES. Plus a basset hound. And a giant bag of Cadbury's Easter eggs.
One night, while child #2 and I were watching Prison Break...which, by the way, is awesome because there are TWO humpable samples of tastiness in ONE show...she was all "why does he always leave his shirt open?...he should button up" and I'm like "no...no he shouldn't". Then we both laughed because she obviously realized her initial thoughts were silly.
In summary, Netflix is also possibly a crucial ingredient for reinstilling family appreciation and values to our society.
Quite the conundrum.
Regardless, it has helped me to conclude that