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Last week I had a dream with Amy Adams and Laura Prepon in some exciting relationship, but the more salient aspect of it was the “re-do”, a feature that’s appeared before, where I will replay or rerun a series of events from that or another night, or at least try and most often fail. (The original hasn’t necessarily happened, but it’s understood to have.) I don’t think I got them on the couch right, so I forfeited any further progress towards that enticing goal.

I called it a “re-do”, of course, because that’s the term coined by this episode of Black Mirror for their perfect assisted recall, and the writer’s choice over more apt ones probably because he’s British. In the end, 記恨 gets at the truth and again it’s the pleasant memories that compel him to go spotless. The most frightening of the anthology for me, especially in light of my recent interest in Google Glass and GoPro to catalogue the excruciating minutiae of my everyday life for future viewing—not at all to appraise my appraisals or pierce jalousies, but foremost to convince my son to make a living instead out of what he enjoys.

The TV execs up there have kindly scheduled the Walking Dead to wrap up the week before the Game of Thrones to resume, and despite having fast-forwarded through much of the last season, I think I’ve come to realize that this was the destined medium for the story, and the books were an unnecessary slog. Of course, that could be said about all the game—Joffrey’s douchebaggery, Arya’s badassery, every new character’s entry—none of it will really matter in the inevitable clash between elemental forces, now will it? Talk about bad pacing!

Was dressing when I noticed my shirt was spotted with blood, quite a lot of it. I turned to the mirror and saw my chest was covered with open sores. To my horror, there were dark pustules all over my forearms and lower legs, the ones below larger with iridescent contents. I hobbled over to Mr. Lanni, my truck-driving elementary school PE teacher, and asked if I could be excused because of my condition. He seemed to be an expert on the subject and took hold of a few of the bulbs, then let the liquid burst onto the floor in a heavy splash. Surprisingly there was no pain from this act, nor any itching from the others.

You know, if this is my fate, just keep me alive until 2016 in a vat of acid.