I don’t want to look like that. Stupid, trudging around with my fat legs the size of a small pig’s body displaying freshly scratched bug bites that make the shapes of constellations. I want to be the cause of the constellations in a clumsy, well off middle-aged mans eyes, and I want to be the absence of benjamins in his weathered cow hide wallet.
Mad Men’s psychedelic premiere is tonight at 10|9c. Be there when the final season begins.