Netflix, Sweetheart, what happened to us? We were so great, but now you're scaring me.
When my neighbor's Wi-Fi introduced us, I'd never met anyone like you. You were way more than red lipstick and a pretty face. You had depth: everything a guy — or a girl, for that matter — would want. You even passed the kid test; you kept bringing over "Dora" and "Wonder Pets." My daughters loved you.
But our best times were when it was just you and me. Remember all those late Friday nights? I couldn't push a wrong button with you.
Before you, I dated this Blockbuster girl, but she was getting crabby and expensive. She always insisted I come to her place, and I had to open my wallet every time I saw her. She had no spontaneity, not like when things were streaming with you. Blockbuster would set arbitrary deadlines, and make me pay when I didn't show up.
When I went to her place, I'd say something like, "I'd like a little Cary Grant romance, if you know what I mean." Blockbuster's reply was an empty shelf that said, "Not tonight."
When I started seeing you she freaked out and tried to make herself more available, but it was over. You were the one, Netflix. Everybody wanted you.
You were so cheap. That sounds rude, I know, but it's true. Being with you for a month didn't cost me near what I spent on Blockbuster.
But then you got needy, and started sending weird emails about how I wasn't spending enough on you, and how lucky I was to be with you.
And then you went nuts: "Sometimes," you said, "I'd like you to call me Qwikster, not Netflix." It was like you couldn't hear how stupid you sounded.
You said, "Don't worry, when I'm Qwikster, I'll wear different clothes and makeup, and you won't even know it's me."
We did an intervention, and you agreed to change, but it was too late. I couldn't look at you the same after that, Netflix.
A couple of months ago, Blu-ray introduced me to somebody. Her name is Amazon, and she's pretty cool. She looks good — like Hi-Def good. She'll go anywhere with me, and she doesn't just show up with a movie. She's got everything.
I have a hunch she's going to find sneaky ways to pull cash out of me. Maybe she's just my rebound, we'll see. But I have to find out. So this is goodbye, Netflix. I think you should get some help. Quit emailing me, OK?
Oh — and you left a few DVDs at my place. Plus your bright red coat. I'm sending them back.