flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
Unless he meets Joss Whedon, of course. Or, apparently, George R.R. Martin. Or possibly J.K. Rowling. Dammit, writers, why must you kill the things I love?
Except I can’t really be mad at George R.R. Martin because into every generation a nerd is born, the one geek in all the world who will stand against the forces of popular series, she who has not yet read or watched Game of Thrones. Before you call me a filthy hipster, I’m not really specifically avoiding it, and it’s not because I hate popular things. I just haven’t had any interest yet. I’m sure that, as usual, I will finally pick up the books years after everyone’s moved on to something else and then be all, ‘Ohmigod, is soooer good! Why I no read til now?’ Also, I might be a cavewoman.
Or not, because as I understand it it’s a huge epic of politics, although, granted, politics with swords, and that is not the sort of book that tends to grab me. I lurve all of Marion Zimmer Bradley’s other books, but I’ve never been able to get into the Darkover series, and Game of Thrones sounds rather Darkover-y, so meh. I’m sure it’s lovely (where lovely means filled with incest and blood and the occasional dragon), but it may never be my cup of tea. Or maybe it will. Is it mint tea? I like mint.