George RR Martin; The Chris Brown of fantasy authors

I have recently been introduced to the amazing series of novels included in "A song of Ice and Fire" and the television series called "Game of Thrones", and am consequently as obsessed as possible when it comes to reading, discussing, re-watching every single episode and crying every time one of my beloved characters die. And trust me, they tend to do that A LOT. I am currently reading the last pages in the second book, "Clash of Kings", and towards the end, I just couldn't endure it anymore and hid the book until I felt emotionally stable enough to process the events which took place. Because something you must know before you begin to emotionally attach yourself to these marvelous series of novels and television episodes; Game of Thrones/ASOIAF is exactly, and I mean exactly, as evil and unjust as reality, but filled with dragons. Most of us have been raised on sugarcoated Disney films where the good guys always triumph, the evil ones perish and the princess get the prince. And no one is a dwarf or fucks his own twin sister. BORING. However, one positive aspect of Disney films is that even though you are aware of the storylines' total detachment from reality and reason, you like it. You want the princess and the prince to live happily ever after. You want the kingdom to blossom, the peasants to be well fed and content, the good to always win over evil, because these fantasies are something we need to be able to withstand all of the real world's misery and injustice. The problem that now reveals itself is; if the Theodicy Problem can be applied to question the existence of a deity when the world is filled with evil, can it also be applied to question the character of George R.R Martin, when he kills ALL OF MY FUCKING FAVOURITE CHARACTERS. I have since starting to read the series become a heartless and cold monster, distancing myself from loving the characters too much or getting too attached, as I very well know they could die a gruesome death on the following page. However, I know that I will never be able to leave this series; I must follow it to the end, despite the pain it forces me to endure. George R.R Martin is like the Chris Brown of fantasy authors; he beats you up every saturday, you leave him and cry your heart out and promise that this time, I will leave him for good, that this time, I deserve better than to be endlessly hurt this way. And then one day, he stands outside your apartment with a few sad roses and promises to never hurt you again, that this time it will be different, and that it really was your fault that he hit you (you did nag a lot, and therefore he became mad at you). And you think, just one more chance. I'll give him just one more chance, then that's it. 


However, in just a few days, you sit there, sobbing into the book and quietly asking yourself "Why do you constantly go back to this? Why?"


You know why? Because it is one of the best book series I have ever read. That's why. 


But if he hurts Tyrion, I will fucking kill him. Self defense, of course.

Expectations (Also, why is there never any cake when needed?)

When I started this blog, I intended it to be an comical outlet, somewhere I could write whatever I wanted without a care in the world and then just stop telling cancer jokes at childrens' birthday parties. A task we all must manage sooner or later in life, basically. The problem is, blogging is not really something that you spontaneously can do, at least not if you are a self-conscious, charmingly hysterical woman who constantly compares herself to all the other amazing comedians and bloggers out there (After first finding Hyperbole and a half and Steammeupkid, I cried for an hour, knowing that I could never reach their level of awesomeness) and can't even puke her guts out after a night of binge drinking without thinking "What angle does my ass look the best from when squatting in the bathroom and does my foundation match the contents of my stomach?". Basically, I am the worst suitable person for running a blog that is supposed to be funny, but mainly just ends up being relatively forced. And it does not really help that blogger.com informs me that it saves my draft every ten fucking seconds, because GOD FORBID the internet should be deprived of inspiring quotes such as "Iwantcakeiwantcakeiwantcakebutimuglyandiwantanowlbutfirstcatandthenadwarfimgonnawatchgameofthronesandjustdiealonewithmycake". So, my new aim is to not be so hard on myself; comedy cannot be forced, as proven by my earlier entries, and not feel bad about myself just because I can't produce 10 awesome jokes  everydayabout genocide or misscarriages or whatever kids these days find funny, but that I'm good enough. I know that young women everywhere hate themselves for not being able to come up with witty sex puns on a regular basis, because that's an ideal which is being forced unto us by the media, so to all women out there - it's not the reference jokes that count, it's how big your boobs are. Spread the word, together we unite!

It's not alcoholism, it's just internal decorating

I just realized how something as trivial as listening to a certain artist or referring to a certain author can make all of life's miseries and tragic behaviour seem not only acceptable, but chic. I myself am obsessed by Victorian veneral diseases such as syphilis and the whores who spread them (You have to admit, everyone who's somebody of importance have had syphilis. It's the Mac Computer of the 19th century), and I devour books about my favorite boys Oscar Wilde, Charles Baudelaire and Friedrich Nietzsche, who all had a certain thing in common; the urge to go out on parasyphilitic rampages and then write a poem whilst they took a shower in absinth and dwelled in their beautiful misery. If you drink alone by the dinner table whilst a re-run of Simpsons is on in the background, you are just sad. Borderline psycho. However, if you fling yourself into a divan, drink a whole bottle of whisky in one sitting and then write a short novel about how nice it is to throw up, then you are a fucking artist. If you avoid contact with other people, you are a socially inept human being. If you dress in dark clothing and smoke cigarettes in holders, you are Le Artist who takes a stance against the demoralized capitalist society. I've been drinking writing my entire life, and to this very day I have never once felt very... authory. (Look at me, making up words and everything. How groundbreaking.) I think that I might have try another approach to create my image as a decadent author; accordingly to the success rate of my predecessors, I must either resort to heavy drugs and absinth or defy any relationship which is not based on me paying people for intercourse. I do love my whores. In an instant, new possibilities were revealed to me - I wasn't using tobacco because I thought it makes me look cool and death-defiant and allowed me to act like a Russian mafioso (YES I CAN, IT SAYS SO ON THE PACKET!!), I was using tobacco because I had realized the emptiness an meaninglessness of life and the absence of an absolute moral or an eternal soul. I wasn't drinking because I wanted to be drunk enough to talk to complete strangers, I was drinking in order to let my creativity flow freely. I wasn't locking myself into my room just to be able to play Pokemon for 6 straight hours, I was retreating to my humble abode to reminisce of love and loss and losing myself in the creative process. It was impossible to do something irresponsible, because it was all part of the image - the image of the bohemian, the decadent libertine, the grieving genius. And everything could be saved with just one simple reference.

Friend: Hey, what's up?
Me: Nothing really. Just walking alone in the dark with a half empty bottle of Jameson, crying. You?
Friend: Dude... That's sad. How are you?
Me: Oh, don't worry; I'm listening to Tom Waits.
Friend: Oh, OK then.

See how I saved that possibly awkward situation? I have an effing GIFT! I should have a superhero named after me, something like "Hipster-woman" or "Pretentious douche-lady". Kids today need more role models who pass out in their own vomit. Teaches them to follow their dreams.