🎬 by a woman held hostage by children, chaos, and algorithmic indecision

It begins as all evenings do: with my body slumped sideways, buried under tiny elbows, Goldfish crumbs, and whatever emotional residue James left behind after sobbing because his bath water wasn’t “spicy enough.”

I’ve been poked, pulled, climbed, and cried on.
Every surface of my skin has been touched by someone smaller than me.
I reek of barbecue sauce and desperation.

And then—Dan enters.
Hopeful. Naïve. Remote in hand like it’s a magic wand.

“Wanna watch a movie?”

That sentence.
It sounds simple.
It is not.

Because now I’m thrust into the Streaming Spiral of Doom™.
Netflix. Hulu. Apple. Peacock. Prime. HBO. Pluto. Tubi.
Every tile a possibility. Every possibility a gamble.

“What about this one?”
Dog probably dies.
“Ooo this thriller looks good.”
No, Karen—it ends with the toddler getting possessed.
“Romantic comedy?”
What if it’s quirky but emotionally vacant? Or worse: boring and beige.

The longer I scroll, the stronger the panic.
Will the ending make me mad?
Will the vibes be off?
Will I waste my one hour of freedom on a slow-burn about sad jazz musicians in the French Alps?

Meanwhile the clock ticks like a judge.
My eyelids beg for mercy.
My brain screams Gilmore Girls.
I scroll.
I stall.
I break.

I retreat.

Cue Lorelai and her caffeine-soaked wisdom.
Cue Stars Hollow and its comforting nonsense.
Cue Dan’s heavy sigh and perfectly timed eye roll.

I glance over. He’s watching me watch a show I’ve seen 72 times.

I whisper, “It’s safe.”

He says nothing, but silently opens ESPN on his phone like a defeated side character in my drama.