Remote Rant!

Everything in life is another fucking choice.  How the hell am I supposed to be able to cope when every 3rd second of my day involves a conscious choice that will affect me or those around me.  Every day is a carefully navigated battle in a sea of faeces and when I get home I would like to be able to turn the telly on and watch something half decent,

But then, we have more choices to make.  What to watch.  When to watch it.  And there are other variables such as the other people in the room, what activity you will partake in whilst gawping at the dreaded box as well as what your viewing availability currently stands at.  Then there are others: HD, SD, Netflix, LoveFilm, 4OD, BBCiPlayer, NowTV, DVD, BluRay and all that other stuff.  It’s a hell of a lot to think about just for 30 minutes of ‘rest.’
My mom hugs the remote and its symbolic power close to her bosom like Mr Sweet from Doctor Who: The Crimson Horror, its gloomy presence creating a waspish reaction to anyone else who should try to touch it!  I am always a bit nervous of my Dad’s remotes as I am electronically challenged and gremlins tend to infest all manner of technological things that I touch.
So I curl up and escape into my room, spend 15 minutes deciding which Netflix item I’ll put on, if I should re-watch a bit of Dr Who or if it’s best to watch the downloaded second season of New Girl.  Which is ridiculous, because next to my TV are a whole load of books, all of which I love as they escaped the cull before I headed back to university.
I don’t like choices.  There’s far too much to be in control of without TV overcomplicating matters by making me choose what I'm going to rot my brain with!
The Remote Sonnet
Device of choices yet to be taken,You test my strength to ditch the shit I see,This is spew that should’ve been forsaken,Unwanted, this plastic shite on TV.I welcome the abbreviated nounAnd see the goods you now claim I prefer.Like much in my bedroom you let me downWishing that I chose a better offer.Where once was four there now are ninety threeVariety of decimate-torture.As soul is pulled screaming whilst torn from me, Gaunt, recalling when it was I bought ya.Oh stick of doom, your days are now numberedKindle leaves me free and unencumbered.(Thanks for reading - sorry about the shaky iambic, trying to write this while a six year old jumps up and down on the settee demanding The Hobbit, Lego and enough chocolate to make him throw up is testing to my internal rhythm!)L x