Mad Man

I'm not prepared for the big disappointment that critics are saying I should have when "Mad Men" comes back tomorrow night.  I didn't believe the first reviews of the new season, but they have piled up.  I know that people have who have not been enamored of the show have been snide about it.  They think it too trendy and have rooted against it the way one might.  I, however. . . hook, line, and sinker.  I have watched the series through more than once, and the show gets more, not less, interesting with the second viewing.  It is an existential work of art.  There.  I've said it.  I may regret it later.  Whatever.  I'm looking forward to Sunday night.

I zombie walked through yesterday, ate sushi, and went to the store to buy a sleeping aid.  I need to sleep badly, and I no longer know any drug dealers to call on the moment.  I would have to plan out a drug deal weeks in advance, I think, involving multiple people.

"Hey, you know where I can get some. . . drugs?"

"What's wrong with you, man?  Why are you talking like that?  You sound like a narc."

"I can't sleep.  I need something.  Can you get any Miltown?"

"Any what?  What the fuck is that shit?"

"Oh. . . uh. . . I don't know.  What do people take now?"

"What's up, yo?  Get away from me!"

So I bought a box of Advil P.M.  When I got home, there were multiple warnings that people like me should not use this drug.  The rest of the box was a litany of all the things that I put myself at risk for if I took the gel capsule.  But nowhere on the fucking box did it tell me how many to take.  NOWHERE!  I was tired, I knew, so I kept reading through everything over and over again.  I stood in the kitchen reading the little box for fifteen minutes.  Then I guessed you were just supposed to take however many seemed right, so I popped open a bunch of plastic bubbles and washed down a handful with a big glass of whiskey.

I didn't, but that is what I want to write to the Advil company.  Really, all I needed was a little cannabis and I would have been in Sleepyville.

I guess, though, the Advil worked.  I slept a full six and a half hours before coming to, then slept off and on for another hour and a half.  And I don't seem to have swelling, blistering, rashes, or rectal bleeding, so I guess it worked out fine.

I read today that people living alone have a higher incidence of depression.  They become isolated and feel hopeless.  The lack of social connections makes them cynical and difficult to get along with.  They tend to rely more on anti-depressents and sleep aids.

Uh-oh.

And I was just thinking that if I could get my hands on some marijuana, just smoking it up and watching the big screen t.v. would be enough.  Another hope dashed.  If "Mad Men" turns out to be as disappointing as they say. . . well. . . stay tuned.  This could be ugly.  I'm going to begin working on my dating profile for Another Stinky Fish or whatever that site I've heard about is called.  I'll have to think of something that makes me sound attractive.

"Single male.  Photographer.  Art lover.  Social Drinker.  Contemplative.  Compassionate.  Loves Likes reading watching movies.   Likes Loves children and long walks on the beach at sunset."

This just isn't going to work.

"Wanted.  Roommate."

Oy.