The idea of doing nothing to screen myself besides self-exams for nearly a decade left me feeling very exposed and unprotected.
As to the first, I find myself screening prospective couch-renters by a simple metric: "does this person seem like someone I'd like to hang out with?" If I were a hotel, that wouldn't be kosher; hell, if I leave town for a weekend and rent out my entire apartment, for substantially more than $60, personality never enters the calculus of whether I'll accept a renter's money.
There is, I reasoned, a difference between attachment and addiction (I have taken the screening tests myself and know I also fall below the clinical addiction zone).
"I shall," Guy says, from the screen, "consider myself well rid of this island's pathetic, grovelling population of celebrity-obsessed, superficiality-fixated wankers.
I'm a screen goddess myself, and I don't care who wins.
I'd never seen anything like this in any gym and found myself lost in an obsessive, screen-gazing state.
At one point in the screening, I found myself nodding off (it was hot and I was tired) and then something happened on screen and I was holding back some unidentifiable grief and trying not to weep.
The day after the screening, I found myself truffling in the archives online, seeking a copy of the Harragin Report — a secret document from 1949, in which British representatives, dispatched to Bechuanaland, summarized the tensions of the case and the merits of the main participants.
For the half-hour screening, I found myself staring at Trump's hair.
Seeing myself on the big screen, I disassociate myself.
