I’ve been watching a lot of Mad Men. In fact, I watched four seasons in about two weeks time. School’s done and I only work part time and I sent off the third round of edits for the novel and my new work is a little strange—not psyched on short stories and am scared to start the process of writing another novel. So I have time. I have Netflix.

I don’t love the show.

I like it, but it hasn’t changed my life or my expectations for what TV dramas can do (these are lofty ideals, but after hearing people talk about the show, that’s kind of what I was expecting).

But I’d sit on Don Draper’s face.

Or maybe the less-gay way of saying this is that I am drawn to him, as I think everybody is. He’s not overly handsome, and his breath is probability sour as hell from the cigarettes, and he doesn’t seem extraordinarily smart or nice or kind or really anything. But he has something I want, which probably boils down to confidence and properly tailored clothes.

I think about being a copywriter.

It doesn’t seem like the worst thing ever.

I have an idea for a commercial. It’s for that campaign for some airline or something where they say Need to get away? I think it would be funny if a husband’s sitting on a couch and his wife is standing next to him and they’re watching the notebook and then she leans over to lift a cheek and farts. Need to get away?

I think farts are funny and poop too.

I can just imagine some medical company asking how their product relates to poop and masturbating, as my copy indicates.

Maybe copywriting isn’t in the cards for this guy.

And maybe I’m not supposed to wear nice suits and slick my hair and be in an office and maybe I’m not supposed to be Don Draper. I don’t smoke and I don’t drink and I don’t think I’m smarter than anyone and I like to spend my time alone writing stories about people who try so hard to get something they think will make them happy. But a guy can dream. He can imagine that going to an office would be fun. He can imagine people would pay him more than two contributor copies for his work. He can imagine a world where people speak of his brilliance, where girls come at him with those snowcone-shaped tits, where it’s perfectly okay to drink all day and sleep on your couch and ignore your children and live an invented persona.