BC Separation Anxiety: My roommate's Netflix account

BC Separation Anxiety is a blog where I lament all things Boston College related that I will sorely miss this summer. I will do my best not to be whiney, but the struggle is real and sometimes I just won’t be able to help myself. Deal with it.  A senior who just graduated also told me that I have no right to complain, since I’ll be returning to the Heights in September. Again, deal with it. But to that I say: you may need this blog just as much, if not more, than I do.

Okay so technically my roommate’s Netflix account isn’t a Boston College related struggle per se, but how many of you mooch off of someone else’s Netflix while you’re at school? Exactly. It is a struggle every broke college student can sympathize with. Case closed.

khaleesi

Did I mention I want to be Khaleesi?

Now usually I don’t watch that much TV. Game of Thrones (OH MY GOD THAT LAST EPISODE, WHAT, I CAN’T EVEN--?!), The Office and How I Met Your Mother are the only three series in which I have watched every episode multiple times and can be reliably called upon to quote at random. That being said, last Friday I had my tonsils yanked out and my life has pretty consistently revolved around the television ever since.

The upside of getting your tonsils pulled out? Two-week recovery period vacation! You’re all probably thinking, “Wow, gee-wiz two weeks to do absolutely nothing, sounds swell!” To that I say, 1) stop talking like Shirley Temple you weirdoes, and 2) bite your collective tongues, it’s horrible. I’m going out of my mind with boredom. And here are a few reasons why:

gavel3-300x3001.      No driving allowed. Wait, what? That seems excessive like a completely logical way to heal your tonsils. Obviously!!!

2.      No caffeine. Oh, of course! Because you won’t be in enough pain already, let’s throw in some withdrawal headaches!

3.      There’s no WiFi at my house. Yes. #CountryBumpkinLife

With the help of these three factors I have successfully acquired the habits of an 83 year-old  in the past week. Along with my diet consisting mainly of liquid Ensure “protein shakes” and Ludden’s cherry cough drops, I get to watch hours and hours of daytime television while sprawled out on my couch. On the bright side, I have two new favorite songs thanks to some clever commercials that I’ve watched ten too many times:

Not bad, right? See my hours of Maury and Sex in the City are benefitting everyone. But let me tell you, other than those two quality programs, daytime television is going to the dogs. Here is my one-sentence long diagnosis of the demise of daytime programming: Drew Carey is no Bob Barker. We won’t get further into it, because hey, I have a Netflix account to complain about.

Needless to say my roommate’s Netflix account would be BEYOND clutch at this point in my recovery period vacation.  But I can’t remember the login, and honestly we don’t have WiFi so there’s no point in trying to hack into it. (I could ask. I’m sure she’d tell me. That would be too easy.) Since there’s nothing to be done about the situation, from here on out this blog post is going to turn into an unrhymed Pindaric ode—look it up non-English majors—to my roommate’s Netflix Account.

 

“Ode to Meghan’s Netflix Account”

Oh most glorious Netflix Account, how I miss you.

So many fond memories, some that I’m not proud of.

Remember the time we watched 13 episodes of House of Cards

in as many hours?

Shhh…No one needs to know about that.

We had our ups and downs,

I laughed, I cried, I yelled, “Don’t tell me how to live my life!”

when you suggested I watch Felicity.

And then I watched it anyways.

Well Felicity sucked, but we had some good shows together too.

We relived junior high together with One Tree Hill,

and I cried like a little girl through every episode.

We rooted for Barney and Robin’s love,

and cheered on the Ducky Tie in How I Met Your Mother.

We cringed through My Strange Addictions.

Then, cautiously laughing at Strange Sex,

I attempted to ignore the irony of the food aphrodisiac episode

while I gleefully stuffed my face with Late Night.

 

But my favorites were your bizarre, straight-to-disc movies.

Thankskilling—the demonic turkey thriller,

With the catch phrase “You’ve been stuffed,”

was a cinematographic masterpiece and easily the best.

But the gory Cheerleader Massacre was a close runner up.

From the slow burning Yule Log to hours of The Office,

We had a good year. T’will be a long three months without you, friend.

September will be here soon, and we shall resume Mad Men together.

 Until then, adieu, adieu, my friend!

Eh, being melodramatic never killed anyone.

Featured image courtesy of mashable.com

El-Pelon-Ad81111

Comments

Emily Akin