Preface: People are dying by the thousands from horrific natural disasters*. Wars rage in far-off lands. Fiery brimstone from a vengeful God is probably raining down from the heavens right now in some third world country. And I am writing a post about our XBox 360, which died last night during a shamefully gluttenous television show. Yes, readers, I am the personification of the self-centered, posession-driven American that the world reviles. Please don't hate me because I am in love with a piece of electronic equipment.
Last night, it finally happened.
The dreaded Red Ring of Death. Right in the middle of a Netflixed episode of "Man v. Food," just as host Adam Richman's eyes orgasmically rolled back into his head after taking a bite of a New Orleans po'boy, we heard the sharp "BEEP," and the soul-crushing circle began blinking at us cruelly, mocking our despair, like the eye of Sauron.
The scary part is, I think I am more upset about it than Husband.
I have never before had any use for silly gaming consoles, thinking them a waste of precious time that could be spent reading intellectual novels or feeding the hungry (in the meantime, I whiled away my hours engaging in really important activities, like watching the latest gonhorrea-laden reality show from Vh1). That is, until we began streaming Netflix through our XBox 360. Suddenly, a whole new world of procrastination opened up. Of late, I have taken to devouring seasons of "Murder, She Wrote" and revisiting classics like "The Baby-Sitters Club, The Movie."
I know, I know. I am a sad, sad human being.
BUT NO MORE! Because my beloved has died! Today we will send it off to the cold clutches of Microsoft, perhaps never to be seen again! We can still get to our Netflix queue through the PS3, but it is a small, piteous consolation (and a pain in the ass).
Why, dear XBox, hast thou betrayed me? "Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?"
*We donated to the Haitian relief through Doctors Without Borders. You should too.