My name is Akshay Seth and I am an addict. No, not the kind that lurks in front of shady liquor stores, fading away between hits of heroin. And no, definitely not one of the rich kids venturing into bad parts of town to fumble through stuttered conversations with gangbangers. I’m different (a.k.a. not in touch with the real world). My drug dealer is Matthew Weiner, and my product of choice is “Mad Men,” which is slightly less problematic than cocaine, but who cares? That brilliant analogy is the only reason you’re still reading.

Of course, none of this would be possible without the superhuman drug mule that is Netflix, slinging 47-minute-long hits of ’60s Madison Avenue glamor. This notebook is an ode to that alcohol-drenched atmosphere, the wonderfully flawed characters that navigate it and my first-ever television bingeing experience. And (obviously) Jon Hamm.

It all started on a boring Saturday afternoon. School was out, I was in Houston, everything was hot and “The Cabin in the Woods” had recently become available on Instant Queue. In other terms, the perfect time to get a Netflix account.

But the number one item on my “Top 10 for you” list was not Whedon and Goddard’s reinvention of the horror-movie genre. It was a picture of Don Draper. A black-and-white silhouette gazed into the distance, cigarette tucked casually between two fingers. What was he staring at? I didn’t give a shit. I watched the pilot because of the boredom, and the heat and most importantly, the peer pressure. For over a year now, I had been the guy that awkwardly stared off into the distance, empty smile twitching, whenever people started talking about how much alcohol Don consumed in a week. It was time to make a change.

Season One and Two

There’s a certain elation in watching Don’s eyes locked onto nothingness moments before they get a glimpse of inspiration — not inspiration indicative of a unique understanding about the way people think, but what they want to think. Too serious? Too serious. When I first considered Don’s creative process (it seems so long ago) and how it was somehow related to his personal insecurities, I thought of myself as a new but serious TV viewer — the kind that lets out sporadic “aha”s whenever something mildly interesting happens onscreen.

But the thing about bingeing is that after four or five episodes, it doesn’t even matter why you’re still watching. You move forward simply to keep moving forward, because going to sleep would mean surrender. The seconds turn into minutes, the minutes crawl into hours and before you know it, it’s 6 a.m. and your alarm clock won’t shut the hell up about it.

As I plowed through the first two seasons in three days, that fucking alarm clock became my worst enemy. I guess I didn’t turn it off because a part of me noticed something was off — The first thing that came to mind every time my roommates asked if I wanted to go out: “Don Draper doesn’t go out. The world goes to him.”

Seasons Three and Four

Six-hour sessions sitting behind a computer do two things to a human body: desensitize the derriere and put you in a stupor of blissful clarity. My butt-numb lucidity carried me through the next two seasons and to partial victory: the season five premiere, which I wanted to hit by the end of last weekend. I burned through Don and company’s falling out with Putnam, Powell and Lowe, glazing over the troubles they had building and running an agency of their own.

Along the way, I saw Don rise to the height of control and stumble down an alcohol-soaked path of self-destruction. In a way, the two seasons were a lot like my week, a week I now refer to as “Mad Men” Week (and they call me a writer).