I sat in the car for a few minutes, trying to be honest with myself about what was actually happening and how I was really feeling.
Despite being on a media fast, I had convinced myself that since I had already decided to see Wes Anderson's latest film at the cinema—which was not on the internet, and was contained in a respectable and limited window with a clear beginning and end, so it would not become a binge—and because Wes Anderson made art-level films, with every shot perfectly framed, and I could learn from his style, and it would be an experiment, and cinema was not technically part of the plan, and the film would only be showing for a short time, and it started in ten minutes, and if I left now I would still have time to buy snacks—and it was a matinée, so it would not be crowded, and…
I watched the whole thing.
Honestly, I was bored most of the time.
What I really wanted was Mission: Impossible. A proper media experience of the most extreme level. When the credits rolled, I was tempted to sneak into another screen and catch whatever was left of the eighth film. Get the kick that was missing from whichever Anderson film I had just watched.
I walked into the bright Arizona sun and sat in the car.
He was waiting, patiently but intently. I had woken the monster, and he was looking at me, wondering when he would be fed properly.
Before I had even started the engine, I checked my messages.
He was not pleased.
As I drove home, I felt the beast breathing on my neck.
It is not as if I didn't already know.