I was doing so, so well. I could easily go weeks without turning it on, without having allowing the glow reflect off my pale skin. I could walk past the machine, see it sitting there blank, hiding the thousands of stories and images it held within it at that very moment. Somedays, I could even sit in the same room, quietly enjoying a book or working away on my laptop, without even acknowledging its existence.
But now. Oh, now it has somehow slipped past my defences, at first triggering curiosity and now wrapping me up in its web of mystery, suspense, horror, and humour.
When I was a child, I was addicted to its presence. I would come home from school and rush to find out what my favourite group of high-flying, ninja practicing, Angel Grove-inhabiting rangers would be up against that afternoon. Later in life, I would visit my favourite yellow-skinned town or join either a 4 or 6 person group in New York and see what antics they were getting themselves into. Thousands of pixels told stories that I would wrap my emotions around, allowing them to draw me from my suburban life and into worlds of excitement.
Then, I broke the chains. I went to college where my companion couldn’t get to me. Months past, and I no longer missed it.
Now, it’s back. It has enticed me with new worlds, full of blood spatter analysts, sex in california, and the political views of comedians across the continent. I’m torn whether this is ok or not. Is it pride that held me from this small pleasure before? Or was it wisdom?