Letting go, or how Netflix learned the art of guilt from my mother

I can't believe it, but the time has finally come. Netflix has broken me. I've had Ray for nearly three months now, and I just can't summon the will to watch it. I have to return it. But I've never returned a movie without watching it before! I'm torn, people. There's movie-buff pride at stake here. I finally managed to watch Finding Neverland (good and not as heartbreaking as I'd feared), and even Touch of Evil (really good, but not exactly light fare). I can watch Ray, dammit. Can't I?

I have that sick feeling of dread like when I tried to walk away from Middlemarch. No, I'm not enjoying it, but yes, goddammit, I will finish reading it. I did finally come to appreciate George Eliot, so maybe I should just buckle down and watch Ray. But if I return it now, I can get another disc of Joan of Arcadia. . . .