Sometime in the last two months, I fell into a weekly ritual that feels more than a little anachronistic in the year 2022.
It went a little something like this: Sunday night comes — ahem, Euphoria night — and I submit to the all-encompassing infatuation that effective art tends to ignite. At 9 p.m. ET, my head clears of any thoughts not relating to the lives playing out in the fictional East Highland and I am fully, 100 percent in there. When it’s over, there’s the obligatory scream/gush/blink-in-tearful-silence sesh with my friends who come over to watch every new episode. Then, when they leave, I turn to the internet.
