We Try It: Game of Thrones

Deep in the shadows of House Persephone, there were whispers. 

“It will destroy all you love,” mouthed the mysterious monkeys in a pile.

“The Internet is long and full of spoilers!” warned the Belle from House Slay.

“No. Seriously, Selena. Just watch the f’ing show,” declared the Bee Queen.

So I set off for Westeros on Friday last, armed only with my wits, a bag of strawberry Twizzlers, and several horns of boxed wine. My trusted steed, The Couch, remained my faithful companion through the darkest hours of night and the pinkest hours of dawn. Seven, eight, nine hours down. I’d cheered, I’d cried, I’d rended my garments/pajama pants with rage, calling for the vicious deaths of my enemies in the Seven Kingdoms; enemies too numerous too count.

“NOT TODAY,” I told my Watching Companion, who looked on in bewilderment,  as I was facing not the cold, cruel hand of death, but a pile of befouled and becrusted eating utensils, rotting like the bones of fallen kings in the scullery. Bones of kings which happened to smell a little like Pizza Hut.  A mystery, to be sure.

“SLEEP IS FOR CHILDREN AND WEAKLINGS,” I cried, defying the sweet siren call of my bed chamber to push through one more hour, one more heartbreak, one more chance to yell at that shitweasel, Joffrey. I drew my furs about my shoulders and set my mind to battle.

“Those aren’t furs, you sleep deprived lunatic,” cried my frazzled Watching Companion, yanking them from my back. “Those are the sheets. I’m going to bed.”

Let’s face it. Some of us have what it takes to watch one and half seasons of a television show in one weekend, some of us don’t. I soldiered on.

When I could go no further, mentally, physically, or emotionally, I relented. I ascended Mount Staircase to my chamber, stein in hand, and slept fitfully, dreaming of betrayal, pointy-faced shitweasels, and, of course, dragons.

Belle, of House Slay, the Bee Queen, and the mysterious monkeys in a pile are still many leagues ahead on the path, but I will join them. Soon.

By [E] Selena MacIntosh*

Selena MacIntosh is the owner and editor of Persephone Magazine. She also fixes it when it breaks. She is fueled by Diet Coke, coffee with a lot of cream in it, and cat hair.

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