The peeps in one of my writing groups were like: have you watched Mr. Robot? Because you're really going to like it. So I made no effort to watch or like Mr. Robot because don't you tell me what
Then Mr. Robot came up on the queue, and I've been liking it quite a bit. But beneath the like is a kind of dread, because I know eventually it's going to change. Or I'll change. Either way, I'm going to screw up my relationship with Mr. Robot.
Do you know that feeling when you're first starting to fall for someone, when their body is so incredible, every move so delicious, when you feel something inside you move when they trail off at the end of a sentence, and you would give a year of your life to know what thought removed them from that moment, stole their attention from you for just that second? And even amidst that swell of limerence, you're waiting, dreading, anticipating the moment when something mundane that they do, perhaps the way they put away the pans or ignore the phone when their mom calls, suddenly and disastrously begins to irritate you?
That's me and Mr. Robot. Right now everything is amazing. But someday, maybe soon, maybe not, there will come the moment when it becomes clear that the twists and turns of plot are just there to prolong the story. When it changes from a well-told tale to a soap opera. Then the writers' hand will have betrayed itself, and I'll be out.