I have been watching the last few episodes of Breaking Bad hiding mostly underneath a giant comforter shouting expletives and “OH MY HEAVENLY DAYS”-esque reactions at my television. Vince Gilligan has been knocking the back eight of this season out of the park. Seriously. Most shows tend to lose a bit of steam towards the end, but I swear to you that after last week’s episode I had to pull out my asthma puffer—that I haven’t used since 2003—to catch my breath. It’s expired and probably did more harm than good, but I had to do something from underneath my comforter.

On the flip side, I haven’t even watched the last few episodes of Dexter. In fact, I gave it up full stop in the middle of the final season which is so unlike me—I’m one who sticks it out to the end. I can probably count on one hand the shows I didn’t watch all the way through and I don’t count ER because no one could expect me to forgive the show AFTER KILLING OFF MARK GREENE and I swear to god I still cry lame crocodile tears every time I hear Israel Kamakawiwo’ole sing Over the Rainbow. Truth be told, I have been pretty much waiting for Dexter to end since the Trinity season ended like four long and lame seasons ago—I even tried to give the season with Tom Hanks’ son and Edward James Olmos a shot because, hi, Stand and Deliver was where I learned the multiplying by nines finger trick. (Really. Not really.). But that stupid dark passenger storyline exploded (and was mentioned in every scene) and then I had too many questions about many things, including how increasingly Oompa Loompa orange Quinn’s face was getting and how nobody seemed to notice that Dexter was seriously the most inept father to ever be and why Hannah McKay consistently wore only black brassieres underneath only white t-shirts.

I hate that—that I quit this. It’s basically The English Patient all over again.

I probably should just watch the last four episodes and wash my hands of it.

But instead I’m sitting here imaging all of the better things I could do with those four hours. I mean, I’m pretty much always saying that I’d love to add an extra eight hours to my day, right? So, I’m halfway there. Or something. Of course, as soon as I start to think that I could be cleaning! Or working out! Or writing! Or trying to fix my broken printer and/or have a printer funeral! Or anything mildly productive my brain starts thinking about super important things like why my gmail has been Benjamin Buttoning today—sending me emails from 9am and 10am and 11am at 4pm and if I would wear navy and black together (I think yes) or how Indie bands decide who gets to have the beards. Are there rules? Do they draw straws? Or is just anarchy—a beardy free-for-all? My brain truly is the strangest place.

(I will not spend four hours trying to pass level 422 in Candy Crush. No. Nope. I won’t. Even if I have to sit on my hands.)

I should watch, right?

I’m not a show quitter.

But, then again, I did give up on the new 90210—the lack of Dylan McKay’s eyebrow scar was just about too much for me to take.

And I recently gave up on The Killing after only about 8 episodes because I found out that it takes a full two seasons to solve the one murder and I just don’t have that kind of patience. I mean, on CSI and Bones and all those other network shows they always solve cases in just one episode and yet here they were going to make us slooooooooooowly wait it out for two whole seasons. Also, everyone was basically just miserable on that show and they really painted Seattle in a very dark and heavy light. Surely there is some pep in Seattle–and something other than grey wool sweaters. It’s the land of Starbucks after all; everyone should be more than caffeinated.

And I did quit watching True Blood during season 2 because I was confused.

And there was that time I quit Desperate Housewives because it was Desperate Housewives.

And I did only watch the first season of 24. And Alias.

And I had to stop watching Buffy The Vampire Slayer somewhere in middle of season 5 because I just couldn’t anymore.

But, but, but I have watched all 118 seasons of Survivor.

So that’s something, right?