Back when A was staying in my apartment, I was so kind as to give her my Netflix password. Months later, after she’d gone back to whatever hole she’d crawled out of (kidding! but I mean it was Philadelphia), I received the following snide email message based on the contents of my Netflix queue:
Somebody likes the Gilmore Girls…
Life has never been the same.
The sanctity of my Netflix queue had been breached. Never again would I know safety and security. No longer would I watch ten episodes back to back of Big Brother: Season 11 unfettered by fear of derision and judgment. I felt like Gene Hackman at the end of The Conversation. So no, Baji, I will not be your Netflix friend. Same goes for you, H. Some traumas cut deep, and this is one of them.