This is the year 

I binged 15 seasons of Grey’s Anatomy 

on Netflix.

Yep. 15.

As I lounged on my brown bulky couch

while clicking on the black sleek remote control 

aiming at the wide glossy screen.

The popcorn I was eating,

all buttery and salted,

slid all over my fingertips

and traveled on the red and green buttons

that lead me to my destination on screen.

I grabbed the plaid, sheep skin blanket

and inched it up my legs

until it reached my wide shoulder blades.

Pajamas covered every inch of skin 

as a bright pink scrunching clutched 

my golden curvy hair,

loose in every nook and cranny.

My eyes gazed at the screen

as I shoved a straw in my dry mouth,

lost in the thought of medical miracles.

“Push one of epi”,

“I need a head CT”,

“But he’s McDreamy”,

clouded every judgement 

in my doctor soaked brain.

My eyes strained from the sight

of bright blue scrubs,

blood soaked organs,

and the sight of unrealistically handsome doctors.

“Are you still watching Grey’s Anatomy?”

Yes Netflix, yes I am.