Day sixty-eight of isolation: the secret was revealed to me. Like my proud forefathers of 1776 and fairly embarrassed three mothers of 2015, I must seek alliance. Not with France or England or even the mighty Liechtenstein shall aid me, but the greatest superpower of them all:

the TV.

I shall seek a treaty with the 70” LG or, should I be spurned, shall plead my case to the Toshiba in the upstairs bedroom. It’s smaller, and the contrast ratio isn’t as good and there’s a burnt-out pixel in the middle that makes it look like the actors have

a white booger sometimes... but as I once read on a fortune cookie:

“Wise man say, better any TV as ally - even a seven-year-old one with only one HDMI port and a hinky remote - than no TV at all when facing a ruthless piece of furniture who lulls you to sleep while it plots with ocelots.”

I would write more, but just remembering the offhanded racism of that note - not to mention how hard it was to eat the eighteen-pound fortune cookie the note came in makes me tired. So very tired. Also bloaty.