I was never that interested in Breaking Bad because I felt (and still feel) that the inevitable violent consequences of dealing methamphetamine in New Mexico and particularly having to grapple with a demimonde of Latino low-lifes is…well, uninteresting. Scummy criminal-class types hold no fascination for the simple fact that they’re born to lose. I respect the poetry of Walt Whitman as much as the next guy, but I never cared very much for poor, cancer-afflicted Walter White (Bryan Cranston) because I couldn’t identify with or root for a guy who was toast from the get-go, and because I’ve always felt repelled by Cranston’s slit eyes and heavily lined, stressed-out features — I don’t see myself in him and I’d rather not see him in me. And I was always irked by Aaron Paul‘s tennis-ball haircut and almost-midget-like stature. I’m not “right” or “wrong” to feel this way, but you’d never know that to go by HE commenters. I was dismissed, pitied, defamed, spat upon and written off by more people than I care to remember. Arrogant as this may sound, I feel I’m entitled to my prejudices about any drama portraying the ups and downs of the Albuquerque meth trade, even one as respected and praised and enjoyed as much as Breaking Bad was.