Today was a rough day for me. I had to part with a dear friend and I have a lot of mixed feelings about it.
Today, I had to unfollow George R. R. Martin on Twitter.
Unfollowing people on Twitter is an emotional process. You’re burning the metaphorical bridge that really only consisted of you occasionally hearting a tweet and being reminded that famous people do not care about you and your feelings, but it stings nonetheless. Sometimes it feels like betrayal, and other times it feels like what’s best. Sometimes it’s because you don’t want to see another damn video of Donald Trump existing on this planet or in this lifetime or ever.
Today, however, I unfollowed Mr. Martin for another reason.
I unfollowed him because if I see one more godforsaken LiveJournal post about Jean Cocteau —who I’m almost 43 percent positive is not a fictional character murdering entire families to sit on a chair made of rusty battle weapons and who I will not look up out of spite — I will personally find him and sing him the Rains of Castamere until he punches me in the face so hard that I can forget that HE STILL HASN’T FINISHED THE NEXT DAMN BOOK.
Now, that might seem harsh. I get that. I’m sure that Mr. Martin is very busy visiting Comic Cons and threatening plot twists to those who challenge his work ethic and rolling in his money and helping produce an HBO hit series. And as a writer, I thoroughly respect the process. I’m sure it’s not easy to sit down at a type writer and think about the best ways to destroy the hopes and dreams of a good portion of the world population. And I’m sure it’s just soul-sucking to even have to think about Theon Greyjoy or Peter Baelish for more than two minutes. And I’m sure he occasionally wants to write about things that aren’t death and prostitution and rape and incest or whatever.
Just kidding, you did this to yourself George, and I don’t feel bad for you because I just had to watch a TV trailer with a bunch of dead faces and I, as are the many other fans who torture themselves by watching this show and reading these books, am confused AS HELL, and I can assure you that it is completely your fault.
If I had the book, I might know if putting Tyrion’s dead face in the House of Black and White was a marketing ploy or an inevitable truth. Or I might know if Arya was going to stick her father’s face on her own because why would she not at this point? I might know what was happening with Jon Snow and if you reaaaaallllly killed Jon Snow, I mean if you REALLY ACTUALLY KILLED JON SNOW THE SWEET SWEET PRINCE OF BEAUTIFUL WINTER, then I could prepare for the mental instability to come.
Alas, George, you have spent your time doing other things. As shown by your Twitter, you have watched and hated football. You have celebrated Edgar Allen Poe. You have watched other Natalie Dormer productions because maybe you needed inspiration. You have watched more football. You have written a blog post entitled “Killer D,” which is misleading. You have written posts such as “The Red Death Is Coming” and “Orphans For Sale – Cheap,” which are also misleading because they are not about Game of Thrones either.
You did write about Game of Thrones once. On Jan. 1, you confirmed that The Winds of Winter wasn’t done. In fact, you said something along the lines of “it’ll be done when it’s done” because you are, in fact, aware of how things logically and systematically work. You stated disappointment in yourself. Such is the life of a writer.
Though I’m sure all of us fans respect the fact that you want to blog about “Puppies on Christmas” instead of how the night is still dark and full of terrors and shadow babies and fire crap, we’d so much more love if you just did your job. You have one job. Literally. Only one. Game of Thrones-ing. But the weird thing about jobs is that you have to do them like all the time, so maybe stop choosing which alien head best represents your LiveJournal feeling of the day and just give Jon Snow the sweet justice and power he deserves, and give us the relief we need because we cannot make it through the upcoming Sundays without you. (Also this is not how book-to-TV transitions are supposed to work idk if anyone told you lol weird right!!!!!)
Until then, we must go our separate ways on Twitter. I to my safe haven of old One Direction videos and daily dog pictures, and you to your type writer because we’re calling Jack Dorsey and you’re no longer allowed on the internet until the book is done unless you need to search your own Wiki because it’s totally cool if you don’t remember all the characters either. There’s just so many.