I’ve not been able to love a television series since my last serious one left me. Don’t judge me, I’m in pain. That love is not easy to replace.



I’m going to be honest. It’s been a while for me. I’m going through what you’d call a rather personal drought.

You see, I once had a love. It was surprising, ugly, beautiful…and on meth.



Breaking Bad represented the last of my television binges I fully committed to. Andrew and Walter, sitting in the tree, S-C-I-E-N-C-E-B-I-T-C-H. However, I won’t write a mash note to my ex, as it’s a smidge tacky (like having a house full of purple), but rather, I’d like to articulate the series of disappointments since I’ve put myself back out there.

I’m willing to love another collection of others, but I’m having a bit of trouble bringing it to climax. I’ve had a couple of flings, I fell into the arms of partners that everyone told me were as good as my ex. I hooked up with The Wire, but I packed up my things and moved out of the West Baltimore projects long before the memes set in, I abandoned The Sopranos before Junior lost the plot (spoilers) and Tony stopped believing (double spoilers), and even RR Martin’s gaudy tussle and muscle kerfuffle had me thumbing for the first dragon out of Westeros.



I’m not hating on your loves, mind, I’m just trying to articulate my binge-ectile dysfunction. I don’t need your judgment anyway, as Netflix’s passive-aggressive pleas for me to continue trying to make it work has made the point clear. Please continue watching, Andrew. You might like it. Don’t judge them until you know them.

Well, Netflix. Don’t tell me how to feel. This list of yours is a gallery of disappointment. I got to the introduction of Pablo Escobar in the pilot of Narcos. House of Cards to the beginning of Frank Underwood’s Presidency (twice). Mad Men, Peggy’s pregnancy. Brooklyn 99, I forget. Homeland, Episode 2. Shameless (UK), five minutes in. Dexter, who cares. I did all of the UK’s Office. But that was a relationship of convenience, I just needed to be with someone, I wasn’t happy.


Here’s another one. I’m miserable. I’m putting myself out there, television, and you’re not finding anyone good for me. In the depths of my desperation, I sat through half a season of a show that was about BDSM, but it presented itself as a smart examination of a woke woman from the past going back further into the past, before going back into the future (the past), and swinging some sort of long-forgotten rebellion that was waged in the name of sex. What are you Outlander, what are you? I don’t like these things you’re doing to me. I don’t think you like them either. You’re just trying to be edgy as a substitute for a personality.

I even tried to go back to Breaking Bad, but it wasn’t the same. We were both different now, I suppose, but there’s a part of me that fears that it wasn’t that good in the first place. Hmm. Hope not.

My point is, I suppose, is that if you’re hopelessly in love with a television show of your own, savour it.

Because it doesn’t last forever.




Share via