This afternoon I grabbed a blanket and lay down on the sofa-bed for a quick nap in preparation for tonight’s Game of Thrones marathon, so that we know what everyone on the internet is talking about. Naps are crucial preparation for such events, as you have to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to keep track of who’s fucking who, and who just got their brains dashed against the cobbles.
Well, I’m super prepared now. I woke up hours later, in complete darkness, unsure of my location or whether it was evening or morning. My viewing companion has mysteriously disappeared, presumably in the search of dinner, which I didn’t cook on account of being unconscious. His computer lays eerily abandoned, no gameplay or YLYL videos grace it’s monitor. Jealous McCuntbeak is strangely silent, her life partner, and therefore her joy, dissolved into nothingness. Now he’s out there, on his own, like a cub in the wilderness fending for himself. In the middle of winter, no less. I can only assume that he didn’t make it, and is now food for the predators.
And this begs the question, how long is it appropriate to wait before I start watching Game of Thrones by myself?