I am addicted to internets. The other night, I got home from a late meeting, greeted Goblin with the promise of a walk as soon as I checked my email, and plunked myself down at the computer. Four hours later, my little Boston terrier was doing a frenetic pee-pee dance as I plucked idly at the spider web connecting my head to the monitor.

I am also addicted to situation comedies from the eighties and nineties, a habit that formed while I knitted a never-ending baby blanket and needed something to do with my eyes while my hands were occupied. This activity is enabled by TiVo, who is only too happy to grab every available episode of “Murphy Brown,” “Just Shoot Me,” and “Frasier.” It takes some of these from the middle-of-the-night airings sponsored entirely by sex hotlines and medical studies of cocaine users, two of the only addictions I have successfully avoided (although they have recently started running ads for gay sex hotlines, so get ready to call Betty Ford). The great thing about sitcoms is that, when you speed past the commercials, they’re only about seven minutes long, the perfect duration for eating a peanut-butter sandwich or polishing Goblin’s toenails.

A year ago, I was going through about ten books a week; now, I may never have to think again.

Update: I am also addicted to fermented dairy products.