It’s not an addiction. I can stop whenever I want to. It’s just a show; I can live without it. Money’s a little tight; no room for HBO at the moment, and like the grown up that I am, I did not hit savings to buy the Direct TV package. Didn’t even call to see how much it would be to catch the entire new run.
That might not be true.
OK, I did call, but that’s as far as it went, and I made it through the first week without weakening, even though I can’t step out of the house without hearing someone somewhere chattering about the first episode, which I probably wouldn’t watch until the end of the run anyway because I like to wallow in the entire season, living on Epic Chicken Sesame Bars and Cheetos. Which is not to say that I would walk out of a friend’s house if he happened to be screening that episode, figuring I could watch it again when the rest of the series was in the can, although watching with a friend absolutely reduces the probability of Cheetos. Some people get all fidgety when I rub my orange fingers on my socks, but I’m pretty sure that gets off most of the orange.
Yeah. That might not be true either.
In any case, until I’ve saved up enough to feed my unfortunate habit, I’m determined to avoid the entire season without stumbling over the crucial plot developments, which, to be honest, are really character deaths and dismemberment. The actual plot is pretty well clear, unless HBO decides to send George Martin into dragon withdrawal (not a spoiler). I do pretty well at guessing who is next to feel the cold embrace of the White Walkers or the tang of an embolism inducing potion. I admit, I did choke on Cheetos during the Red Wedding. Should have seen that coming.
But, in order to protect myself, I’ll have to avoid popular magazines, which will mean not shopping at my local grocery store as they not only line the checkout aisle with screaming headlines but also have the most provocative right in front of the cashier, so I’d have to pay with my eyes averted, which is obviously not a good look at any time but especially when pushing my card into the reader.
TV is ok, I think, as long as I stay away from anything produced live. I have been watching reruns of Bewitched anyway and have eight years of 24 in the slot for the moment when Dick Sargent replaces Dick York as Darrin. Don’t get me started on the Darrin Syndrome; we’re not stupid, Television.
But, and here’s the rub, I also can’t go on line without an internet buddy to screen the sites I reach, and even then I’ll have to figure out how to go into a coma when pop ups pop up. I do that already in most cases, and, since flaying is no longer as likely as it was in the Ramsay Bolton era, I can probably swerve away before being sucked into a G.O.T. update.
I have tried busking, crowdfunding, selling essential oils — all for naught. Unless an unexpected expense intrudes (buying gas, eating, electricity), I should be able to cough up enough for HBO Now in three months, just about time to put together the seven episodes in what is somewhat misleadingly called Season Seven.
Maybe four months if I splurge on the Epic Chicken Sesame Bars and Cheetos.