A woman obsessed

I have a compulsive personality, I'll admit it. When I choose to engage in certain behavior, I do it obsessively until I'm tired of it, which could be anywhere from a week to a year.
Previous obsessions have included karaoke at least once a week, sometimes twice, fried cheese with ranch dressing, having to check my alarm clock 8 times before I went to sleep, and reading anything Kurt Vonnegut ever wrote.
Now, these are not all bad things to be addicted to, mind you, but having just spent nearly a full two weeks watching basically nothing but The Sopranos and only really stopping because I ran out of episodes and Season 4 won't be delivered until Tuesday, I realize now that I have some "issues," to put it mildly.
I once watched that show "I Love the '80s" on VH1 for an entire 8 hours, even though I had stuff to do that day and was actually expected somewhere about an hour before I got there.
That show is a perfect way for me to hone the compulsion. It has short, attention-grabbing clips, and when one show ends, the next one just kind of morphs into being without so much as a commercial break. So, even when I was thinking,"Okay, must get into the shower now," another show would start, and I would be held captive for the next half hour or 3 hours, however long the marathon went.
I did this with "Sex and the City" as well. When I had both a VCR and DVD player, I was a woman possessed with having to watch every episode back to back. I have 3 seasons on VHS and 2 on DVD, but now I only have a DVD player, so basically I have the seasons that I do own memorized, which is not such a good thing.
When a person is telling me of relationship trouble, or I'm discussing my own, and I say, "Well, it's like when Carrie and Mister Big did this...or said this..," that can't be good.
I've gone so far as to actually call certain men in my life Mister Big and give detailed reasons as to why I think that. I have a problem.
But now, the sickness is clearly focused on The Sopranos. I love, love, love James Gandolfini. I've mentioned that in a previous post about my fascination with the Mafia, but I think my feelings for him veer over into "I-Want-To-Start-A-Fan-Club" territory.
When he walks down the driveway to pick up the newspaper in his little terrycloth bathrobe, I want to molest him. Or even when he yells at his kids because he genuinely doesn't want them to turn out like him, *sigh*, my heart breaks just a little.
My name is Emily, and I'm addicted to Tony Soprano