Like the old Russian guy said in an ep of The Americans I watched last night, “We all die alone. Before that, we make choices.”
I choose not to watch True Detective until after the final episode airs and people stop asking if I’ve seen True Detective and stop talking about True Detective. If I then decide to watch and if I find it pleasing, I will hide my enthusiasm and will continue to refuse to give the internet the satisfaction.
The good thing about something so short-lived is that there are very few memories to hide from. There’s only one neighborhood ruined, and it’s one I no longer have cause to visit. Only one restaurant I wouldn’t frequent anymore, but there are plenty of late-night breakfast places in town. Only one movie theater that makes me feel sharp little pangs and suppress a nose-wrinkle when I step inside. Just a few bars I’m keen to avoid, but I already have a favorite dive bar and that fancy cocktail place is too douchey for my taste anyway.
But the speed and velocity with which this thing happened means there are marks. Not just the fading, discolored spot on my hip from the metal part of a over-enthusiastically flung belt, but inside ones. Like when Wile E Coyote plummets off a cliff and leaves a coyote-shaped spot in the earth below. The grooves are deep and jagged, and no one else could possibly fit in the misshapen imprint.