|You suck, George.|
A Game of Thrones is a book that made me cry. And probably would continue to do so, if I ever picked it up again (unlikely). I read it (or rather, finished reading it - I'm not sure how many times I put it down and forgot about it before picking it up again) about a year and a half ago, when le boyfriend and I were in England. He'd been pestering me about finishing it for ages. So I did. I still remember exactly where I was: in the blond wood rocking chair in the corner of my attic bedroom at our landlady's house, middle of the day on a Monday, pearly-white English sunshine streaming through the skylight.
I had gotten to the point where I was so absorbed that I was spending maybe three seconds on each closely-printed page, scanning quickly enough that all the important subjects and verbs got picked up, just hoping that I didn't miss anything important as I powered through to the end that, yes, I saw coming, but was really hoping I would be wrong about.
It ended. I might have thrown the book. There was definitely fist-shaking. And poor Josh, with his complete and utter lack of self-preservation, came up the stairs and asked what was wrong.
I'm pretty sure he's forgiven me for the many and uncharitable things I said that afternoon. I have yet to forgive Mr. Martin for what he did to provoke them.