I know he doesn’t exist. And I am usually not one inspired by tales of fantasy or fiction; but Walter White, who’s both the protagonist and antagonist of the show “Breaking Bad”, is the most bad-ass man who has ever lived in the tubes of my television. Previous exposure to White and the show is not necessary to empathically understand how he inspires me; therefore, I find it utterly captivating that behind the curtains of the most milk-toast chemistry genius, who lectures on ionic and covalent bonds to disrespectful, non-appreciative high schoolers, lives Heisenberg: the only chemist in the world capable of synthesizing 99% pure meth. Heisenberg, of course, is Walter White’s street name; he penned it after the German quantum-physicist Werner Karl-Heisenberg. Walter White is a Walt Whitmanesque character – prevalent from the numerous allusions utilized in the show – who prides the little-man, which is subsequently himself; that has been diagnosed with lung cancer and has two more years to live.
I feel like an overweight, basement-dwelling, Yoda fascinated dweeb writing about a fictional character’s influences on me, but Walter White is a Jesus-like inspiration to me. Most notably, he taught me how to cook meth without getting caught – just kidding; but in all seriousness, Heisenberg is able to juggle ten perplexingly complex situations at one time … while remaining calm and collected. Whether he’s receiving chemotherapy, dealing with a disrespectful, unloving wife, remaining elusive to the Mexican cartel (while they try to kill him), buying his son a car, raising a newborn daughter, laundering drug money, hiding his drug activity from his DEA agent brother-in-law, or coping with his dimwitted teenage drug cooking colleague, Walter White is capable of handling intense amounts of stressful situations without “breaking” a sweat.
Whether I am melting two Advil tablets under my tongue, dealing with rude, simple-minded peers, remaining elusive to teachers tracking me down for late homework, taking my car into three different auto-mechanic shops around Phoenix to avoid getting scammed from some grease-monkey named Tony, wiping tumorous puss from the lower lip of my sixteen year-old lab, spending my birthday money on Subway foot-longs and Coco Puffs, hiding my late-night activities from my mind-reading psychologist mother, or coping with my dumb and lethargic alter-(late night)-ego, I imagine myself as Walter, and try to mimic his ways of executing those mundane activities that make up my day. Why? Because if I have to undertake the tedious activities of life, I might as well do it like a bad-ass.
I aspire to be as collected in tense situations, and as thoroughly awesome as Walter White. As a Hindu seeks Nirvana I pursue the enlightenment of being a collected bad-ass like Walter White. Seriously, who doesn’t want to be one? Not an enlightened Hindu – although that would be cool too – but a thrill-attracting, meth producing – kidding yet again – bad-ass like Walter White.