How I Spent Two Hours Traveling Nowhere in a Land of Endless Thumbnails

I was just going to watch one episode.

You know the kind of Wednesday night promise you make to yourself after dinner — the disciplined “Just one, then bed by ten.” It’s like telling yourself you’ll “only” have one cookie, as if restraint is a personality trait you can manifest through sheer declaration.

So I made tea, wrapped myself in a blanket that was part fleece, part guilt, and opened Netflix. The TV screen went black for a second before blooming into that signature red. And that’s when my evening got swallowed whole — not by a story, not by characters, but by a smug grid of infinite thumbnails. I was the sailor, Netflix was the siren, and instead of crashing into the rocks, I was about to crash into tomorrow morning.

Row One: Optimism

The first row is always seductive. It knows you.

It’s the algorithm’s opening handshake — warm, firm, confident. “Welcome back,” it purrs, showing me a curated blend of prestige dramas I’ve been “meaning to watch” and documentaries about the obscure hobbies of strangers I will never meet.

I scroll past a show about jewel thieves in Monaco. The still frame is perfect: a man in a tailored suit leaning against a vintage car, sunglasses reflecting some Mediterranean skyline. The subtext is clear: You, too, could be this effortlessly cool. Which is a lie — I’m in sweatpants, my tea has a weird aftertaste, and the only thing I’ve ever stolen is a pen from my bank.

Row Two: The False Sense of Progress

Comedy → New Releases → Because You Watched That Thing You Don’t Even Remember Watching.

I feel confident here, as if moving quickly between categories counts as making progress toward a decision. It doesn’t. This is where the first signs of paralysis set in.

Why is it offering me Planet Earth II next to Sharknado 5: Global Swarming? Is this a commentary on nature? On human taste? Is David Attenborough in danger?

List of Possible Explanations for the Algorithm’s Mood Swings:

1. It’s conducting a psychological experiment.

2. My account is haunted by the ghost of someone with terrible taste in movies.

3. Netflix just wants to watch me squirm.

Row Five: The Point of No Return

It’s been 25 minutes. I am now scrolling past things I’ve scrolled past before, but I’ve forgotten why I rejected them the first time. It’s like circling the same block looking for a restaurant and convincing yourself maybe that weird place on the corner is worth it now.

Descriptions blur together:

“A small-town woman faces an impossible choice.”

Between what? Shoes? Murder? We don’t know.

“A ragtag team embarks on their most dangerous mission yet.”

How many missions have they had, and why is this one both “most dangerous” and “PG-13”?

I start playing a mental game: what if I don’t choose anything? Could I survive the night on previews alone? Would I be nourished by plot summaries like some kind of narrative camel?

Row Eight: Existential Drift

I realize scrolling Netflix is exactly like opening the fridge over and over, waiting for better food to appear. It doesn’t. It’s still the same sad Tupperware of leftover rice, only colder now.

This is when the creeping thought arrives: maybe I’m not watching Netflix — maybe I’m shoppingNetflix. The interface isn’t built to get you watching quickly. It’s designed to keep you wandering. Every scroll is a dopamine drip, a tiny thrill of “maybe the next thing will be perfect.”

A Brief, Possibly Hallucinatory Dialogue with My Remote

Me: “Alright, let’s just pick something.”

Remote: “Mmhmm, sure. That’s what you said 47 titles ago.”

Me: “Don’t sass me.”

Remote: “Then stop scrolling like you’re searching for the Lost City of Atlantis.”

Row Twelve: The Museum of Things I’ll Never Watch

There’s a special kind of fatigue that sets in when you’ve been staring at bright rectangles for too long. Every image starts to feel like part of a museum exhibit about Things Other People Care About. I wander past dramas about war, comedies about middle-aged divorce, and a thriller about bees.

Memory Shards from This Row:

• A still frame of a woman in a sequined dress holding a chainsaw.

• A cooking show where the chef appears to be crying into a pie.

• A sci-fi drama with the description: “A man must remember who he is… before time runs out.” (Time runs out for what, Netflix? Dinner reservations?)

It hits me: all this scrolling is just another way of avoiding commitment.

Picking something means picking this over everything else — and what if I’m wrong? What if something better is one scroll away?

In an age of endless choice, there’s comfort in never choosing. No disappointment, no regret. Just an infinite buffet where you wander with an empty plate, telling yourself you’re “still deciding.”

Side note: The moment I realize I’ve spent longer browsing than the runtime of The Godfather is the moment I should turn off the TV and go read a book. I do not turn off the TV.

Midnight

I’ve added six titles to “My List” (which is really “My Never-List”), read the synopsis of at least fourteen shows I will forget exist by tomorrow, and decided that maybe I should start a three-season crime drama in Danish.

But now I’m too tired to watch anything. The irony stings like a paper cut you get while opening a motivational pamphlet. I turn off the TV, brush my teeth, and climb into bed, feeling like I’ve been on an exquisitely curated walking tour of a city I never actually visited.

The next evening, I tell myself I’ll be decisive. I’ll pick something in under five minutes. I open Netflix. The rows slide into view like the gates of a theme park. Somewhere deep inside, I know the truth: the scroll will win again.

And maybe that’s the point — the scroll is the show. Endless, episodic, and perfectly tailored to leave you hanging.

I do, in fact, know how to tie a noose — thanks for that, Scoutmaster. Every lesson has its application, I suppose.