To the red-themed website whom it may concern,
Hello, it’s me. If you haven’t noticed by now, I have made the decision that it would be best for us to stop seeing each other for a while, and I feel as though I owe you an explanation. It’s going to be hard, I know, but I can’t keep living like this, and I need you to understand.
Just the other night as my eyelids grew heavy and my mind weak, I saw you, minimized in the corner of my screen, existing without me, without us. It had only been 24 hours, but I felt your absence like a gaping hole in my heart. So in my delirious state of exhaustion and vulnerability, I broke my promise and let you loose from the prison I had created.
I lost myself and I didn’t mean to but I clicked and then your body emerged so beautifully out of exile, materializing like a genie from a bottle. All at once I sat up straight and widened my eyes so as to welcome your delicious poison back into my body. If you were a drug, Netflix, you would be lethal.
Your latest available strain, “Jessica Jones,” grabbed me by the eyeballs and ruthlessly forced me to sit through thirteen episodes in four days, leaving me weak and craving more, unable to quench my starvation through all of Thanksgivukkah (believe it or not, latke-crusted turkey is pretty fucking disgusting).
Frankly, Netflix, now is the time for you to understand the pain and suffering you have caused me throughout all these years, and maybe, just maybe, you will accept that our relationship can no longer exist so long as you continue to exhibit your addictive properties.
Like a dedicated stalker, you have stumbled upon my darkest fantasies and my most tantalizing tastes. I trust you to know that I’ve watched both volumes of Nymphomanic, yet I cannot trust you in keeping this fact from Aunt Sheryll, another one of your users. You have betrayed me too many times before. Fuck you and your faultless memory.
I don’t want to be crass with you, I’m sorry. I can’t help but admit that when I lay with you, all other things cease to exist. What we share is special, real, intimate. You hold a special power over me, Netflix. Maybe it’s your ability to manipulate the gentle fabric of time, your capacity to mangle moments together into a dangerous web sprinkled with drama, comedy, and reality.
I simply cannot resist. An hour easily becomes a minute, and before I can realize what you have done, my phone reads 3:00 A.M., and I figure that one more episode of “Bob’s Burgers” wouldn’t kill me. My pupils dilate, and I invite you in.
What did I ever do to you? Is it my fault for loving you too much? For breaking up with my school work for you? For skipping meals and losing friends and weakening my vision and destroying my posture? Nah, it’s you. Definitely you.
Oh, how I love you, Netflix, but oh, how I hate you. You are my sunset and my sunrise, my high and my crash, my lover and my greatest foe (faux). But I cannot be engaged in such a tumultuous relationship. It’s over.
And as harsh as that sounds, you must accept the fact that your addictive tendencies bring me down, when in truth, I need a hand that can pull me up. You feed me these unrealities, and all of a sudden, my life seems too normal, too boring, and too futile.
For my own sanity, I have blocked you, handed your URL over to “Self Control,” and told my mother to change the account password until further notice.
Goodbye for now,
P.S. You may disregard this letter when “House of Cards” season four becomes available. Feel free to notify me through whatever means possible. Thanks Boo, luv ya!
P.P.S. Don’t even get me started with this fucking ‘Netflix and Chill’ bullshit. Let it go.