Farewell, world. You hold nothing for me now — at least until spring of next year.
I have dined off the nectar of Westeros and Mereen, I have drunk my fill of plots and schemes. I have suckled at the teat of good mother revenge almost to the point of bursting. It is time to slumber the long, sweet slumber of one sated mind and body by the all-nourishing splendor that is Game of Thrones.
You see I am a person who, 9 months out of the year, lives in a chamber of slime and depression aka the reality of my existence. In the pseudo-womb that is my mind I await spring when my one source of joy, Game of Thrones, springs forth anew from the fertile womb of HBO. 3 months of life, 3 months of joy, 3 months of retaining the sustenance to shepherd me through the long summer, autumn and winter. Until spring. Precious, GoT-giving spring how I love thee.
Yes, soon I shall slip back into the recesses of my own psyche. I will seem alert and functioning to the untrained eye. But in reality I am one who sleeps, thankfully full of enough GoT to tide me over until next April. I was concerned earlier in the season that I would be unable to enter my stasis. I was not receiving my usual amount of sustenance from my weekly Game of Thrones viewings. Plot lines occasionally felt overwrought and the bloodshed of major characters was minimal.
But I have eaten. I have drunk. I am prepared to rest. Goodbye — I shall see you all come April.