While the menfolk scream downstairs, swept up in March Madness, the SJG hibernates upstairs, experiencing a different kind of insanity: my own private "Lost"marathon on Netflix. I'm almost done with Season 1. How many episodes did I watch yesterday? I'm too embarrassed to tell you. Less than ten, more than eight. I can't seem to stop myself, even though I know the outcome of every episode. On top of which, I'm not a marathon kind of gal. So, there must be an explanation for this strange behavior, this unstoppable "Lost" fest. Could it be...
the crazy-making Prednisone pills I'm taking for my cough have pushed me over the edge, yet again? Yes, that's got to be it. Historically, the little bastards drive me nutso. I refer you to my "Fiddler on the Roof" breakdown of yore, when my family found me singing, "Sunrise, Sunset," weeping and hacking, weeping and hacking, till hubby grabbed the remote and said, "I'm saving you from yourself." Here's hoping these things work soon, or I'll be up all night, watching Season 2 - 6, and filling out the only brackets that truly count.
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