This Child

So, I know I do this a lot, but I just stumbled upon an old poetry assignment from high school… based upon the first Walt Whitman poem I ever read. I thought it was lost, but it was on an old flash-drive I recently dug up. Considering the huge effect that Walt Whitman’s poems have had on me since then, it feels like a gift to have rediscovered it.

My classmates and I were told to write our own poems based on Walt Whitman’s poem, “There was a child went forth everyday,” but to shape it around our own lives, and it had to end with Whitman’s own words, which I will italicize. I was 15/16 when I wrote it… might take a crack and writing a new one sometime, to reflect new experiences.

For Olde Poetry Monday, enjoy!

This Child

Doctors and white walls were a part of this child,
Needles in arms and IV’s in foreheads,
A bit of blood turned into life-saving power,
For one tiny, incubated figure,
Too frail to even utter a cry,
And as the years went on, the scar grew smaller,
Serving only to gently remind
Of painful days and cold linoleum.

Summerville was a part of this child,
The town where the sun never died,
Shoes weren’t needed, and southern drawls summoned,
From across the street,
This child’s head was filled,
With impossible dreams of otters,
And pretending that the backyard was some far-off land,
Though the boat she made out of cardboard
Never floated anywhere,
She was happy.

Books and rain-streaked windows were a part of this child,
This child, who sat in her closet for hours,
Wishing that she could find Narnia.
She thought that simply howling at the moon would make her a wolf,
And even though it was only a game,
She really thought was the World’s Greatest Pokemon Trainer.
And that she and her blonde-haired best friend,
Really could fly when they sat on the swingset,
And flung their shoes out over the mulch to see whose went the furthest.

Soccer fields were a part of this child,
A checkered ball hammered into the left corner,
And cleats smudged by mud and dew-kissed grass,
The freedom to run from white line to white line,
Avoiding elbows and knees, ignoring harsh words,
Enduring practice in sweltering heat,
Striving to become worthy of that pale green jersey,
And the number ‘3,’ emblazoned in white,
In the end, the cleats proved too big.
And she traded the jersey in for a pen and paper.

Terrified screams were a part of this child,
Being chased by the Licorice at Hershey Park,
Pursuing a hug that she did not want to relinquish,
To some creep in red and white, with a never-fading smile.
But screams turned into peals of laughter,
During remembered hours of hide-and-seek,
Out on the lake, fishing with Dad in the grey of the morning,
Setting the bass free that was meant to be breakfast.
And at sleepovers, when staying up until 11:00 was an incredible feat,
And we waited for the first girl to fall victim to sleep,
So her face could be decorated,
With the vibrant colors of a marker box.

Awkward silences were a part of this child,
A struggle to fit in, once moving vans carried a cherished friend away,
And the halls grew longer, the crowds heavier,
But friends were made at last, and kept,
The ‘See you soon’s’ written in the yearbooks became sincere,
And the taunts became distant echoes,
No longer heard in her ears.
Instead, laughter rang out in summer nights,
As fireworks crackled in the driveway,
Car rides down Friendship Avenue became adventures,
And text messages almost always exceeded 160 words.

Accidents were a part of this child,
Taking a horseshoe to the head,
Running headlong into a telephone pole,
That day, the race wasn’t much,
The competition poor,
But she ran her hardest, regardless of a sure-thing,
The steps were miscalculated,
But the baton left her palm,
Her feet left the red rubber,
The race won, but something else lost,
The only standing ovation she ever received,
Rang in her ears, even in the Emergency Room.

Boston was a part of this child,
Golden ducks at Boston Commons,
And free chocolate bars from the cute guy at Starbucks,
A house shared between 12 teens and 3 adults,
Attempting to share 3 bathrooms.
Something was found on the grey-paved streets,
Floating on the cold, salty Atlantic,
And in the embers of a towering campfire,
Perhaps it wasn’t what she intended to find there,
But it was real,
And those sharing the memories may be scattered,
But she can look at a simple cone of ice cream,
And remember,
That seven day journey to understanding.

Comic books were a part of this child,
All of her dreams packed into one word balloon,
Accentuated with sound effects in all the right places,
Inspired by vigilantes and men in masks.
Microsoft Word files exceeding 540 pages,
And a burning desire to see her name in print.
Will drive this child to pursue a new life,
If only this child can stave off procrastination,
To reach her distant dreams.

These became a part of that child who went forth every day,
And who now goes,
And will always go forth every day.

Boop

Like all dignified cat owners, I love to give my cat, Reese, little ‘boops.’ Boops on the nose, boops on the head, etc. However, much like me, Reese also spurns the majority of affectionate gestures, so she typically acts incredibly affronted when I do this to her, and then ignores me for hours afterward.

Here is a pic of the demon, for reference. My adorable, antisocial tortoise-shell kitty. She’s about twelve now – but she’ll always be a “kitten” to me. She does love the occasional cuddle, but only on her terms.

20190314_1131009165462623960138011.jpg

Recently, Reese has taken to laying behind the living room couch, which is a decent sized strip of carpet that leaves plenty of room for her to loll around, and she can see when people come and go from the house through the stair banister.

Recently, I came home from an outing – I believe from my viewing of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood – and Reese was waiting patiently behind the couch. She stuck her head through the bars of the banister and meowed eagerly at me, likely upset that I’d left her so long without food, not at the simple joy of seeing me return from being gone somewhere.

On a whim, I stuck my face toward her. Normally, she shies away from such gestures, but she tentatively stuck her head further toward me… and she booped my nose with her nose. Her little pink, velvet nose booped mine, like a tiny kiss.

I was stunned. She’s never done anything of the sort before, and she immediately scooted away from me afterward, so I almost didn’t believe it had happened. I filled her bowl with food, and she chowed down, the moment forgotten. But my heart was warmed… and even if it never happens again, I will always remember that boop. I will treasure it.

It truly is the little things, isn’t it?

Duality

There is a butterfly bush in my backyard. It’s not uncommon to spot little winged friends taking a sip of nectar, or catching a break from the hot sun.

The other day, I was looking out the window and spotted two butterflies in the air by the butterfly bush. Both were of decent size, but one had buttery yellow wings, and the other had velvet black. I watched as the two seemed to spar in the air with one another – or maybe it was some type of mating dance, I don’t know – over and over.

It was a bizarre, beautiful dance. They proceeded to flit all around the yard, clashing against one another – light and dark in symbiotic union, until they disappeared from my sight.

Their aerial dance got got me thinking about duality. Light and darkness. Happiness and sorrow. Hatred and love. And how, so often, one does not exist without the other – or we do not realize how vital one is until the other creeps in upon us. Can we ever appreciate our happiness if there was never any sadness in our lives? Can we ever bask in the light without first moving out of darkness?

However, on the other end, we can combat sadness by remembering the happy times that preceded it, and darkness can be less frightening when we know that light is out there. We can battle hatred with love when we know the highs and lows of both. Duality is not fearing one side and embracing the other. It is seeing, and appreciating, and enduring, and being able to accept whatever side we must face, and come out stronger on the other side.

Fly

Another addition for Olde Poetry Monday, this one circa 2009. Please enjoy.

 

I don’t get why people tell me, “never change.”

If I stayed the same, my biggest dream
would still be to sprout wings and fly away.

It’s cute when you’re five,
but I don’t think they have a major for that in college.

Experience is the heart of change,
and change is the center of growth.
So why do people remain locked up in their homes,
afraid to see what else is out there,
and see who they could become,
if they spread their wings?

I don’t get why people say, “you’ve changed,”
like they’re disgusted by it.
I find out all too often,
that those very people,
appalled by the thought of change,
are the ones who close their eyes,
cross their arms,
and never see beyond the ends of their noses.

Just because I changed,
does not mean I will forget.
Sometimes, I look up at the sky,
reach one hand toward it,
and remember exactly how it was,
when my biggest dream was to fly.

 

 

Me Too

I know that many people look at the world today and see it as a volatile place. I’m more or less the definition of a standard-issue, Starbucks-loving, nonreligious, straight white girl, so obviously, my life hasn’t been riddled with the kinds of difficulties faced by those who are discriminated against because of their sexual orientation, skin color, religion, gender identity, what have you. I am very fortunate, in that regard – and I am fully aware of that.

But in the wake of the “Me Too” movement, I realized that there are some experiences in my past that have affected me and have influenced my behaviors around members of the opposite sex. You can say you’re tired of hearing about these “Me Too” stories, but it’s always going to be relevant, and if people have a story to tell, then they should tell it. I only recently told this story to my parents, and they were shocked that I hadn’t told them about it before, so I thought it might be therapeutic to get it off my chest. However, if personal stories aren’t your cup of tea, you may want to pass on reading this post.

I played on a coed soccer team when I was around seven or eight years old. We had three coaches – my dad (the best one, and no, that’s not bias speaking), one of the other dads, and a bald guy with a beard who I will call “Frank,” for the purposes of this story. Basically, it was a bunch of kids in green shirts running around occasionally kicking a ball in the right direction. One kid never took off his parka. We were terrible. I later had a briefly successful venture into more competitive soccer, but this was my first year playing, and nearly my last.

There was a kid on the team named “Sean,” also a fake name for the purposes of this story. Sean played defense, I played offense. When we had scrimmages during practice, and I found myself opposite of Sean, he would waggle his eyebrows at me and pull his shorts up to show me his underwear. My reaction to this was to basically make a “WTF” face, because why on earth would I want to look at his Scooby-Doo undies. He did this fairly often. I didn’t engage with him. I gave no indication that I wanted him to do that. I said nothing to him. I was there to play soccer, and that was it. That sort of unwanted attention was uncomfortable for me. I’m certain my father never noticed him doing this, or he would have for sure taken that boy to task.

As mentioned before, we were not good. We were, to put it bluntly, dreadful. We lost most of our games, but really, when you’re that young, the purpose is to have fun and to learn, not to wreck the competition. Two of our coaches understood that we were spindly-limbed novices still learning how to play the game – Frank did not. Frank treated U-8 soccer like it was the world cup.

One day, after a particularly rough loss on our home field, I was walking to the bathrooms (a generous term, as they were really a pair of port-a-johns) when I overheard Frank talking to some of the parents. He said, with malice in his voice, “Allie flirts with all the boys!”

I stopped walking, because I couldn’t believe it – and I didn’t understand. First of all, I didn’t know what flirting meant. Frank sort of clarified it, as he went on to claim that I distract all the boys so they can’t focus on the game. He accused me of being the reason we lose games, the reason for the poor performance of the boys on the team. I assume this mainly meant Sean, the underwear showing weirdo, but he said, “all.” I thought boys still had cooties at that age, so I didn’t understand where that accusation came from. I wanted to score goals – I wanted to be a good player. I went to practice to play. I wasn’t doing anything intentional to “distract” the boys – if I spoke to them, it was usually about cartoons or Pokemon cards, and only at breaks. But Frank’s words hurt; they made me feel terrible and I went into the foul-smelling port-a-john to have a nice cry.

I look back on that now, and I see it as a middle-aged man blaming an eight-year-old girl in pigtails for the poor performance of a U-8 soccer team. I was a child who did nothing wrong, and yet, my existence was a reason for his ire. Even though I was being paid unwanted attention by a male player, it was my fault that our team was terrible. I was made to feel guilty, to feel responsible, to feel… ashamed. And for what?

I know it looks tame compared to many of the other stories – and thankfully, it is. There have been a couple of other instances in my personal history, but those are not stories I care to tell at the moment. But this event from two decades ago had a profound impact on the way I interacted with boys for years. I didn’t want to be blamed for any male’s shortcomings, and I also developed a steep distrust for male authority figures that I have only recently begun to get over. I generally avoided the attention of boys/men for the next, oh… fifteen years. And it’s something I still grapple with, twenty years after I was sent crying into a portable bathroom by the overheard accusations of an incensed soccer coach. I know that it wasn’t my fault, but I also won’t deny that there was long-lasting damage done to my psyche that day, which I have only been able to unpack and process over the last couple of years.

I hope that this movement – the “Me Too” movement as it has been called – will help other girls, boys, men, women, and anyone else who has been affected in a similar way, cope with what they’ve gone through, regardless of the severity. I know that hearing others speak up about their experiences has made me more comfortable with sharing mine, and I can only hope to do that for someone else out there.

 

 

History

Every year, on the weekend closest to the anniversary of D-Day, the Mid-Atlantic Air Museum in Reading, PA holds an event called World War II weekend. Folks can come to see real WWII planes take to the air and stroll through recreated military encampments, watch FDR and Churchill drive by in classic cars, peruse genuine artifacts, listen to veterans speak, and learn all sorts of intriguing tidbits about the WWII era.

My dad used to take my sister and me to this event for many years. He knows a lot about the planes and enjoyed teaching us about the differences between them and what they were used for. One year, we got to meet Robert K. Morgan the pilot of the Memphis Belle, and tour the plane itself. I was pretty young at the time, so I didn’t fully understand the significance of that interaction, but I’m glad I got to meet him and shake his hand, as he has since passed away. I garnered an intense appreciated for WWII air crafts, of which my favorite is the P-40 Warhawk.

Even though I’ve attended this event several times, it’s still fun to go every year. Occasionally, new planes enter the rotation as the museum acquires them.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Of course, the most rewarding part of these events is seeing the planes take to the skies. Despite these planes being over 70 years old, many of them are still in flying condition. And it is absolutely incredible to watch. Though there are so many things to walk around and see, many people set up lawn chairs on the grass just to sit and watch the planes fly all day – though, if you ever do this, I recommend bringing lots of sunscreen, water, and maybe a sunhat and sunglasses.

Veterans of the Great War still attend these events – they engage curious children and talk about their experiences with anyone who stops to chat. Of course, there are less of these brave men and women now than ever, as all of them would be into their 90’s now. It’s an era that should never be forgotten, and events like this certainly help with that.

But this event is special because of the multi-generational quality – it’s encouraging to see young children take an interest in our nation’s history, and heartwarming to see grandchildren walking around with their grandparents, eagerly listening to them talk about the planes and such. It’s also insanely comforting to see any folks taking their elderly parents/grandparents around, making sure they get to see everything, taking care that they don’t get lost in the crowd, entertaining their questions and treating them with the utmost respect.

I am thankful that my father took me to the airshow when I was young, even if I didn’t fully appreciate the gravity of WWII as a child. Now that I can appreciate the history more, it’s like taking a stroll through history – and recognizing the greatness, and the sorrow that comes with it.

Unusual Skills

You can know someone for decades, and still be surprised when they throw out seemingly random facts about themselves. Obscure little tidbits that don’t quite make it into “About Me” sections and convos because there is little opportunity to slide them in organically without sounding like you’re bragging. Well, I’m definitely not rife with such skills, but an example would be…

I have a history of turning bowling pins into art pieces for a competitive charity event. I have made a Jawa from Star Wars, and Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy. Here are a couple of pics. I also made a parrot once, but I can’t find any pictures of it.

1106140845~2

img_20170504_154529_6002274578488699006918.jpg

I’m proud of these, but I also don’t have much opportunity to mention it – though I can’t say I ever really look for a time to slip it into casual conversation. Sometimes, I even forget about it myself until I stumble across an old picture.

I also used to be on the global leaderboard for a facebook game called Night Balloons. I was obsessed with it for ages – now, I probably couldn’t play to save my life.

So, does anyone else have an unusual skill they’d like to brag about? Because I’d love to hear it!

Also, there will be a bonus post tomorrow!

Game of Thrones: A Final Perspective

***WARNING! THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR SEASONS 1-8 OF GAME OF THRONES AND THE ASOIAF BOOKS!***

I’ve defended some of Game of Thrones‘s more questionable or controversial decisions, or, at the very least, accepted them, even if I didn’t always understand them. Literature and television are different mediums, and translating one to the other is not always seamless. I appreciate the hard work that everyone – cast, crew, producers, everyone involved in the making of this series – put forth into turning a beloved book series into an epic genre-bending show that drew in millions of fans across the world. It built an enduring legacy, and has deserved the huge amount of awards and recognition it has earned across its run. This is obviously a show made with a huge amount of dedication and passion, and people have watched it so closely and loved it so dearly because of that.

That brings us to Season 8, which recently finished airing after a year and a half hiatus after season 7. The final season, where viewers learned the fates of their favorite characters and the identity of who would reign over Westeros from the fearsome Iron Throne. But now that it is over, and the dust has settled, there has been a massive amount of backlash from fans and critics. For the first time in the series, I agree with a large portion of it.

Do I think the ending sucked? No. But I was left wanting.

I’m not opposed to Daenerys as the “Mad Queen,” and the ultimate “villain” of the show. I’m not opposed to Jaime turning back to Cersei. I’m not opposed to Bran being elected king, and I’m not opposed to Sansa being made Queen in the North. In fact, I have very little issue with what was done this past season on Game of Thrones… my issues lie in how they happened. The root of that is in the pacing. And the writing.

Game of Thrones used to shine because of it’s subtle scenes – conversations between characters which may seem trivial at first, but convey motivation, emotion, and shed light on other plot points and decisions in a meaningful and often masterful way. Of course, much of this can be chalked up to the source material, the ASoIaF books by George R. R. Martin, but some – such as the conversation between Robert and Cersei in season 1, where the pair discuss their marriage – are a show-only invention. Those scenes – introspective scenes, scenes were characters let down their barriers, where we can really get into their thoughts and feelings and see into their development, have always been more vital to the show than cool battles and brilliant effects. Yes, those scenes are excellent too – the battle at the Blackwater and Battle of the Bastards are some of the most visually striking and powerful battle scenes ever seen on television. But scenes like Ygritte’s death carry more emotional weight because we saw the full development of her relationship with Jon, and we knew how she felt being betrayed by him, and how he felt knowing he would have to betray her. Scenes like the revelation of Jon’s parentage through Bran’s vision of Jon’s birth tugged at the viewer’s hearts because we knew how Jon felt about being a bastard, and we simultaneously come to realize how much Ned loved Lyanna – and Jon – to keep that secret for so long. The Red Wedding was shocking, but even that has a ton of build up, with Robb making error after error, paying the ultimate price to learn that love cannot always overcome oath breaking and losing the loyalty of your followers and that inexperience can be a fatal flaw. Cersei blowing up the Sept of Baelor has an incredible amount of multi-season build-up, with Cersei’s desperation and paranoia over Margaery and the High Sparrow culminating in one final explosive act, pushing her beyond redemption and causing her to lose her last beloved child.

I can think of several more examples from the earlier seasons, but overall, the small, intimate scenes are vital to the show’s success because they lead to larger scenes – such as those big battles or dramatic climaxes – having a more significant impact. Huge events often have a series of little events  building toward them at a balanced pace. And what season 8 (and 7, for that matter) lacks is those small moments. The result is rushed conclusions that bear less emotional weight, and payoff that feels both disappointing and underwhelming. Game of Thrones has always been so much more than dragons, occasionally gratuitous nudity, and grueling battles. It’s been about political sabotage, intricate human relationships, racism, the fallout of war, religion, and a multitude of other issues and subjects. But the final season feels superficial, falling short of she standards set by the GoT of seasons 1-4… even 1-6. 

In season 8, Jon – a man who has believed his whole life that he is a motherless bastard – learns that he is a Targaryen. Not only that, but he is the true, legitimate heir to the Iron Throne. In the same moment, he discovers his lover is also his aunt. And yet, other than a few shocked looks and some brooding expressions… do viewers really know how Jon feels about this bombshell? Sure, he continues to swear himself to Daenerys (though he discontinues their romance), and denies wanting the throne… but we never get into his head or dig into his emotions over the ordeal. How does he feel about Ned really being his uncle? How does he feel knowing that his true father is Rhaegar Targaryen and his history is linked to Robert’s Rebellion overall? What does he think of Lyanna? How does he feel about being related to Maester Aemon, who he so admired at the Wall? Just how devastated is he to lose his relationship with Daenerys? He went from thinking he was a lowly bastard to discovering he is basically the center of intense conflict, and the product of two noble houses. We never get immersed in his emotions the same way we have in previous seasons, and so, his character development over the season feels stunted. It made him seem like a distant shadow of himself – a ghost, if you will.

Cersei did nothing this season but lament the lack of elephants, sleep with Euron, and stare out of windows… oh, and die. We never get tapped into her thoughts or emotions at all. Lena Headey does a brilliant job with what she was given, but there is so little reflection on Cersei’s character it comes across that the show didn’t know what to do with her, and her death is lackluster. Viewers expected her to die this season, but when the fateful moment comes, there is nothing surprising, nothing to make the viewer feel for her, nothing to signify or emphasize Cersei’s arc across the seasons. It’s like she only existed in season 8 to be taken down, and that is a poor tribute to Cersei’s character, who fans have loved to hate since season 1. She peaked in season 6, when she blew up the Sept.

Daenerys’s descent into madness, her almost fated Targaryen fall from grace into paranoia, took place in basically half an episode. Sure, there are hints of it in previous episodes and seasons – her initial instincts toward violence only being curbed by her advisers, her family words and legacy being “Fire and Blood,” the losses of her closest allies and friends and her steadfast belief in her destiny as a “liberator” pushing her to the brink. It’s not as though there is no build up at all. It makes total narrative sense for her character to take the turn she does in “The Bells,” and I personally love the idea of Daenerys becoming the conqueror she used to imagine eradicating. But because the pace over the last two seasons basically warped into hyper-drive, the change in her character feels far too abrupt, even if the seeds had already been planted long before. I suspected it might happen, and yet, seeing it unfurl in a blaze of death and ashes felt far too sudden. And honestly, Daenerys (and Emilia Clarke’s portrayal) deserved better, and the backlash is completely justified. The twist lacks the depth of previous seasons – it’s a detonation instead of a slow burn. Audiences – especially those who do not delve quite as deeply into the theories and book lore – felt like they had the rug ripped out from beneath them.

Even more egregious (to me, anyway) is Jaime Lannister’s return to his sister and lover, Cersei. Again, it’s not totally unbelievable that this would happen… but Jaime has had seven seasons of redemption, of trying to shed the “Kingslayer” moniker and prove himself as a man of honor. He finally turns on Cersei “for good” in the season seven finale, to fight for the living and go north. But when that fight is done, he sleeps with Brienne, then leaves her once he hears that Cersei is in danger… all in a single episode. And then, in the next episode, he meets his fate first at the sword of Euron of all people (which… I’m not even going to go there) then dies embracing Cersei as the ceiling caves in around them. So, what do viewers take from that? That seven seasons of building up one of the most intriguing characters, with an arc that explored the roots of his actions and his struggles with how people perceive him and how he hoped to leave the shadow of his tainted legacy behind, meant nothing? Again, narratively, it’s not outside of the realm of possibility that Jaime would do this – but seeing his turn in character take less than one episode is so sudden, so abrupt, it fell completely flat and carried no emotional weight whatsoever. Jaime was one of my favorite characters, and I didn’t even care when he died. Sure he died in the arms of the woman he loved, as he said he wanted to. He and Cersei left the world as they came into it; together. The seeds were planted for his decision, but were given no time to flourish, and the presentation of it was way too rushed, which made his fate feel anticlimactic.

I could go on. For example, there’s no way the other six kingdoms would be totally fine with the North remaining independent, and many of the other Highborn lords likely wouldn’t approve unanimously of Bran being king, either. Is there still a need for the Night’s Watch, if the White Walkers are gone and the freefolk are content beyond the remains of the Wall? How could Icy Viserion take down the Wall but not that rock that Jon was hiding behind? How could Drogon single-wingedly take out Cersei’s forces, including the Iron fleet and the Golden Company, when one episode before, he had to flee a portion of Euron’s ships to avoid being killed? What was the Night King really after? Did the Night King ever really matter beyond being a little speedbump if he and his forces were defeated in a single episode, and the rest of the Realm never knew the true danger they were in? Where the fuck is Meera? Who gets Dragonstone? Why does it matter if Jon goes to the Wall if Grey Worm and the remainder of Dany’s forces are leaving, anyway? You might think these are trivial questions, and maybe that’s true… but they are questions that the show would have answered in previous seasons. Instead, the final two seasons were a race to the finish with no time to dwell on emotion or development, when the show used to truly thrive when it did take time to dwell on those things.

Of course, I assume many of these endings and storylines will unfold differently in the books. There are more characters and situations involved in GRRM’s story than the show was able to portray without alienating the casual viewers, such as the fAegon arc, Victarion’s plot, and the schemes of Doran and the Sand Snakes. And if some of these points raised in the GoT finale remain in the intended book ending – such as Daenerys torching King’s Landing – I believe they will have much more development, and won’t feel unwarranted or unjustified. Readers will see character growth and motivation more clearly. I’m only sad that the version we got on the show lacked the intricacy of the previous seasons and the books, the little moments that made Game of Thrones so powerful and made the characters easier to connect with.

If fans out there loved the final season, then that’s great – and I hope that many folks did love the finale. There are parts of season 8 that I thought were amazing – Cleganebowl was excellent, and Drogon nudging at Daenerys after she was stabbed broke my heart. I will still watch the entire series over and over again, and there are so many elements that I have admired consistently over the years. I went to the Game of Thrones Live Concert Experience back in 2017. I have a lot of merch, and will continue to wear my GoT shirts and such with pride. I don’t hate the show just because I found fault with the finale, and I don’t think those faults negate the incredible impact that GoT has had on the fantasy world. I just wish we had been given two full seasons to close it out – a little more time, and a little more depth, would have gone a long way.

In Disguise

I recently left my old gym in favor of a new one, and have been making an effort to eat better. I’m in decent shape, but would like to lose a couple of pounds and improve my strength. All about that self improvement, folks.

And then, as I was hitting my stride, I got struck with a stomach virus that rendered me almost completely immobile, during a week where we had surprise extra shipments at work while also being severely short-handed. People kept a wide berth around me in the office and I had to wear a heating pad around my neck while on the floor.

Needless to say… it was a bad time. But I did lose a couple of pounds.

I also wasn’t able to drink coffee for a couple of days, because the very scent of coffee made my stomach churn. After I started feeling better, I kept the trend going. I haven’t had coffee since Tuesday, which is a new record for me. And I actually feel… good?

So maybe, sometimes, bad situations can be a blessing in disguise.

UPDATE: Not an hour after I finished drafting this post, the stomach bug returned with a sudden and violent vehemence and brought a horrible migraine with it.

So… I take it back. No blessings here, in disguise or otherwise.

And I am totally drinking coffee tomorrow.

(My Game of Thrones Season 8 post will either be this Friday or next Monday, depending on how fast I can finish it. I have a lot to say, but want to give the dust time to settle and my mind time to chill a bit.)