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The Demerol doesn't work. Too little makes me herky-jerky and enough to fix that makes me too stupid to live. All I want to do is kill the pain for a bit and just lie down and have the dreams that make another day worthwhile.

The ones where you had miniature playing cards stuck under your fingernails and we were playing around in bed trying to see if there were enough to make a full deck.

Or the ones where you had your hair cut into a bob and we were playing around in bed trying to remember why you had not only left the theater job but gotten a GI haircut on the way home.

Or the ones where Veronica Mars turned out to be as good as Twin Peaks plus Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

I think it was during the real life that we watched Season One somewhat suspiciously, on a recommendation from a user on some long-lost website. Fifteen minutes in, we were hooked. There it was. The witty banter of Buffy and the blonde teen beautiful bad girl who saves the day like Buffy, plus the weird lighting and twists of characters that looked a whole lot like Twin Peaks. I am pretty sure it was in the real life that we swam through Season One and saw an almost heroic story arc of crime and passion and murder and redemption and the unconditional love of a daughter and her dad.

Hurriedly, we set forth on Season Two and were not disappointed. Even though every episode so obviously now had the predictable little crime that has to be solved, like some lameass show such as Monk which slowly slipped over the brink of watchability long ago. This dream was still alive because the creator still loved his little TV lovechild and still saw an obvious promise and hope for the future. The dialogue actually became even more edgy and cuter and we both caught almost all the references to things that normal people would not understand whatsoever. We bought into the new story arc about a suspicious bus crash even though it was beginning to look as if the writers were getting too cute by half. And, fully satisfied that this was actually turning out better than we could have expected, we plunged headlong into Season Three.

That was around the time the Demerol showed up, and at first I blamed it on that. I thought the disappointment that was setting in was part of the dream that goes wrong -- the frustration dreams where the one phone number you need is on a page that's been torn out of each and every phone book you can find, or the ones where you're playing golf and the greens turn into slick tabletops that just won't hold any sort of chip -- and that maybe we hadn't started watching Season Three yet, really. But after I tossed the pills in the trash I realized that the creator of this show had done the same with his dream and that we were, in fact, watching Season Three in the real life.

What could have been worse than having such a great thing fall apart so quickly and decisively? After the abrupt ending to one the greatest things ever shown on the television after three seasons, the glorious Deadwood, it was hard to admit that the same thing should have happened to our little Buffy Peaks wannabee. The same thing that happened to our little blond Buffy wannabee on my beloved Deadwood when she played the little innocent lost child with a lost brother who turned out to be another worthless whore should have happened to the Season Three: Al Swearengen should have killed it and thrown it off the balcony. What could have been a bigger slap in the face than the jokes getting lamer and the storylines getting weaker and the characters getting more annoying than lovable? I will tell you.

The first two seasons came in six discs. The first five would have four episodes on them, lasting about 45 minutes without the commercials that would have been in there had you been watching on network television in real time: In real life, as opposed to the NetFlix dream. The sixth disc of each season would have only two episodes. However, it would be these last two episodes which tied everything up nicely and made you want to see the next season.

Season Three came in six discs, too. So we watched the first five and realized the dream was getting tarnished like a major league batting title with an asterisk sitting right on top of it like some stray bird shit. Still and all, time had been invested and we were somewhat pleased with where the fifth disc left off; it had promise for a satisfactory ending via that one last disc which showed up in the US Mailbox. We even set that one last disc aside for a couple of days until we had a proper time to enjoy the finality of a series that had, for the most part, pleased us and given us sparkly smiles to help get through this life without the proper medications future civilizations will find essential.

And that was when the full slap in the face came. This is not a spoiler. This is a warning. Do not expect anything after the fifth disc of Season Three if you decide to get hooked on this series. This sixth disc is one of the most irritating things I have ever experienced in this life: It was a spit in the face from a toothless homeless beggar after you've given him a twenty. All that it contained was some fifteen-minute pilot set at least a full year in the future, with none of the characters (aside from the blonde chick) you'd come to know and love. And then there were hours of bullshit about how this was the creator's attempt to sell a Season Four to the network suits.

You know what, Mr. Creator? How about finishing Season Three before you send me a sixth disc trying to make me feel sorry for your lame ass for not being able to sell a Season Four? Even Deadwood had the courtesy to just leave me hanging as opposed to spitting on me as they cut me down. Motherfucking cocksucker.

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