My last post was too long ago! I was house sitting for my mother last weekend and between working and errands, I think I’ve tired myself out. And although I slept nearly twelve hours last night – I know twelve! (I could probably sleep forever if my boyfriend would let me,) I have a terrible sinus headache today and I’m feeling just plain lousy.
Feeling “under the weather” made me think of all the things I used to do when I was sick and the foods that I would like to eat when I was a kid. (Something that hasn’t really changed now that I am twenty-six).
First things first: Choice of entertainment – The Princess Bride.
It was a movie that I always used to watch when I was sick and I still do. I’d alternate between the princess bride and the Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. The music that plays during the shire scenes in the beginning is so relaxing and calming for me. As for The Princess Bride, well that’s a given. It has everything for someone who just wants a good story before bedtime: romance, adventure, fantasy, humor, sword fighting and great characters.
Drink of choice: Ginger Ale.
Whether I’m suffering from the stomach bug, or a terrible head cold, ginger ale is calming on the stomach and refreshing. When you’re told to drink lots of liquids to feel better, why not have it taste good?
Food of choice: Chicken and Stars soup.
You know the Campbell’s chicken and stars condensed soup that the Progresso commercials say are not adult food? Yeah, that’s the one! haha 😉 But there’s nothing like some good saltines and butter and this hot soup when your head is pounding or you’re just ready to go to sleep.
Well, now that I’ve made myself all nostalgic and wishing Mom was here to sooth all ails, I’ve got a question for you all.
What do you like to watch/eat/drink when you are sick?
It’s all about comfort here, people. And these are definitely my comforts when I am ill. Hope everyone is having a great week so far.
Thanks all for the comments on Friday post, I haven’t decided what I’ll post that day, but I am leaning towards some kind of continuation story. Couldn’t think of what to post tonight, so went to the writing prompt app on my phone and came up with this post. Who knows, maybe it’ll be a story idea for later. 🙂 Hope everyone is having a great night!
Happy writing!
Writing Prompt # 34: You are at a restaurant when someone you know shows up. They make their distaste for you evident to the people you are with.
I was on a date with my boyfriend. I got the fried chicken with mashed potatoes. The potatoes were good, but the chicken was a bit dry and stringy. I chewed on a forkfull as I watched the steak wander around in my boyfriend’s mouth. Maybe we’d been too quick to make things official, I guess I didn’t realize how narrow his face was, how his mouth looked like a duck when he chewed. I choked on the bite of food in my mouth as I saw a body appear next to his left shoulder. I saw a bright pink scarf and followed it up to a bright, shiny face, and pink lipstick. Her face literally shown, like a Angel’s, I’d forgotten the way her blond hair framed her face, the way her blonde curls bounced and curved next to her upper lip. The place where I had kissed her freckles dozens of times.
“Jewel, God,” I choked on my chicken as Andrew glanced up at her standing behind him. “What are you doing here?”
“I might say the same to you,” she said with that pucker of her pink mouth. I never understood how she managed to be so sweet and so mean at the same time.
I stirred potatoes around on my plate, mushed them into soggy green beans. “I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean.”
“Oh, I think you know,” she said.
Andrew glanced up at her, eyes narrowed. “Have we met before?”
“Andrew, this is Jewel. She’s an…old friend of mine,” I said.
“Ex-girlfriend,” she clarified, with a hand on her hip. I tried to hold back my laughter as Andrew choked on a his water.
I tried my sweetest smile. “Did I forget to mention her, sweetie?”
His duck mouth pursed with obvious distaste. “I think we ought to go home. Are you finished?”
I looked sadly down at my chicken. “It tasted like shoe anyway.”
Jewel was standing there silent during our exchange. As we got up, she gave me this look. It was a look that lasted a second, but felt like a lifetime for me. “We should talk,” she said.
I pulled on my coat, as Andrew stood there, his eyes dark. “Later,” I murmured.
“Are you ready yet?” said Andrew.
I gave him a dark look. It was cold outside, negative two degrees last time I checked. It was a kind of cold that really did bite at the extremities. If my boyfriend was sending out chills, Jewel’s expression was warm. Probably warmer than it should have been, given the situation. I didn’t know what to make of that.
“Later,” I murmured again, as her eyes followed me out the door. I brushed my hair out of my eyes and sighed. “Later.”
It was a comfort knowing I would no longer be talking to my myself anymore.
Last night, I was thinking about making Friday a special post day. In which you guys would look forward to something recurring – either a continuing story, or a movie review, or a book review, or…something. I’m a big foodie, maybe I’ll post a picture of my lunch or something. (You think I jest? Just wait. 😉 )
So, what would you like to see every Friday?
Here’s some ideas…feel free to chime in with your own of course:
A recurring story, each Friday we will see a new chapter, or new piece of that story. (I’m thinking short story length when it is done, not novel length. Maybe 20 pages or so.)
A poem.
Book review.
Movie review.
TV Show review
Pictures…of something pretty?
Writing prompts/ story inspiration
Food; either something new I’ve tried, or some of my favorites
 A list of anything; probably in article format. Like 10 favorite places in the world, etc…
**Did you know: Charles Dickens Great Expectations was published first in serial form in Dickens’s weekly periodical All Year Round, from December 1860 to August 1861. (Wikipedia).
Well what do you guys think? Here’s your chance to weigh in!
I do like the idea of a continuing story…but let me know what you want to see, though, and I hope everyone has a great weekend!
This week is a week of inspiration for me…and another inspiration is dreams. I get a lot of inspiration from dreams, as they are basically stories that the brain invents all by itself while you are sleeping.
This morning I woke up at 4am with the knowledge that I had the best dream EVER, and despite me writing down as much as I could, it still seemed like a whole lot of nothing. I could barely remember anything.
All I do remember is that I was at a friend’s house staying the night, I made out with one of my girlfriends, (we have been watching a lot of Orange is the New Black lately), we sang a song, there was food and candles lit, I went somewhere with my boyfriend. I was working out on an exercise machine, doing pull ups. Then the dream switches to me being on a slide with my friends, we were poling on a raft through a river of dead bodies, then there was this waterfall drop, I was too scared to go so I jumped off the raft to the side.
Just as I’m about to go down the shoot, some arms and legs emerge from a grate and a man appears with a gun and a bunch of soggy money clutched in his hand, he tries to shoot me and the dream changes again…I remember a story within a story, a love story I eventually tell to someone and my amazing heroics. (Apparently I could control water.) I remember a large grassy hill and a yellow mansion on the hill. I remember writing names on a mirror in pink paint or lipstick; someone scoffing and saying they definitely weren’t the best couple ever. I remember I dreamed up a night’s worth of actions in two hours.
Although I couldn’t remember everything, what IS clear is the emotions. I felt hopeful, triumphant, amazing and invincible. Like justice was really served or true love really triumphed in the end. I felt strong and confident and young. My heart was warm, and fuzzy, I was the happiest and the most excited about life that I have been in a while.
If I had a dream about my ex-boyfriend, I wouldn’t be warm and fuzzy. No, emotions like regret and longing sometimes resurface. But it is funny how sometimes a story has the ability to influence your emotions, changes the way you feel.
That’s what I want to do someday: I want to make someone feel happy because a character is happy, I want a reader to rejoice in their triumphs. I want to write something that changes a person’s perceptive about certain things. Words are powerful. I want to shape them, make them my own and be one of the triumphant ones.
Anyway, that’s enough from me…What are your goals and inspirations? Ever have a story that was inspired about a crazy dream of yours? I’d like to hear it!
It is raining here in upstate New York, coming down like it means some business. We’ve had a flash flood warning, have been threatened with 3 or 4 inches of some good rain, but I’m not afraid.
Julianne Hough as Sherrie in Rock of Ages. I thought the whole Tom Cruise rock star thing was a little freaky at first. But you can barely recognize that its him in the movie.
Instead, I’m in that writer-like dream mode. The rain reminds me of sad stories, lost loves, that sad aching feeling of something once remembered, something cherished.
Just finished watching Rock of Ages while doing some much-needed dishes, and near the end of the movie is the song, “Every Rose Has its Thorn.” I don’t know why, but it inspires me…So I’ll use that as my inspiration for my next 15 minute journal session.
My 15 Minute Jouraling posts are something that I started as a warm-up for myself, so as to keep myself writing and the creative thoughts flowing. It’s something we used to do in my creative writing classes with a prompt given from the teacher. Anything can inspire me and I thought I’d give it a share.
I’ve done some other entries too, if you are curious, you can view them here, and here.
Also, it helps if I have that song playing in the background…I’m a sucker for covers and I really like the version on the Rock of Ages.
Here’s where I’ll put 15 minutes on the clock and do that thing that I do, GO!
>>>>She stared out the window at the rain, watched it come down in sheets and sheets of water that fell so hard it looked almost white. Her mother told her not to do it. Told her not to move away and live with a boy she’d just met.
The town they had moved to was in the middle of no-where. Except for the nuclear power plant a mile away, there was nothing there – except for a few dusty stores and cows that bellowed in the fields nearby. Her mother told her once that she hated the sound, that bellow. It was empty, mournful, made her think of her father that had up and left them. Angel said that the cows bellowing gave her stomach ache. It sounded like they were going to be sick and she’d rather steer clear of them.
Except there wasn’t anywhere to go in the empty town. She liked the look of the green grass and the trees that waved in the wind in the summertime, but come winter all she felt was loneliness. It was the kind that bites. That seeped into the cracks of their trailer and left a chill in her heart, an edgy-ness. Everywhere she went in that small town she could feel them watching.
And Angel knew that she wasn’t meant to stay.
It didn’t matter that she had no money. She wasn’t going to ask her mother for any either. She’d pack her bag and leave and feel the sun on her face once more. It was time she did something for herself rather than others.
She didn’t know how much that her boyfriend would put up a fight.
She’d told Andrew on a Tuesday that things weren’t right. He’d crush the beer can he’d held in his hands. Yes, he was the typical red-neck…complete with wife beater and ratty faded blue jeans. She’d like the grease on his hands at first. She liked the way he swaggered.
Now, she felt afraid.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said as he lit his cigarette. She’d told him not to smoke in the house.
Angel fumbled with the dishes that she was drying and nearly dropped it on the floor. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, nothing,” he said, and laughed and got up and kissed her bare shoulder, traced his hand along the edge of her tank top. “You won’t go anywhere without me.”
“May…maybe I’m meant to be,” she stuttered, and followed him into the next room, her hands still soapy. “You once told me I could do anything.”
He sat in front of the TV. “Yeah, that what I said?”
“Well, I’m going to do it,” she said with one hand on her hip. “I’m going. And you won’t hold me back.”
He laughed a laugh that had no emotion. She wondered if when he said that he loved her, if he really meant it. “Do what you want, Angel,” he said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
If it didn’t matter, why was she so afraid?
By the next week, she had her bags all packed. She’d filled her car full of gas.
ANNND…that’s all the time I have. I used online stopwatch and the alarm just rang, scared me, lol. If I were to end this story, it’d probably go something like this:
She left him standing in the driveway, mouth wide open, his eyes finally open and lonely. The coldness had dropped from his face, and his shoulders drooped in that ratty wife-beater. It reminded her why she had loved him. He was so tall, and broad-shouldered, his eyes dark and beautiful. When she’d first met him, she thought he was so strong and steady. That he’d protect her, make the monsters of the world go away.
She imagined someone tough and blond-haired would marry him. She’d probably be a girl who grew up in camo and went hunting with her brothers on a regular basis. She wouldn’t be beautiful, but she wasn’t ugly either. She’d swear like a sailor and be stubborn. She wouldn’t take Andrews crap, and eventually he’d turn to alcohol anyway.
Angel felt her stomach twist as she turned onto the highway. Felt the tires run on the open road and breathed a sigh of relief. Yet, she felt a jolt in her heart as she felt the pressure on her abdomen and she pulled over to the side of the road and threw up in the ditch.
Bile clogged her throat and bits of her breakfast went back down as she swallowed. And she ached all over, felt a kind of dread that defeats tiredness, it brings on its own kind of weary. Tears ran down her cheeks and she snuffed loudly as she tore around in her backseat for a tissue. Her fourways blinked and clicked obnoxiously as a semi bellowed past.
It was too late. She wasn’t in this alone anymore. She’d never be alone again.
Whoa. That took a different turn, geez. I didn’t really do any editing, except to fix spelling errors and I think I’m going to keep to that. I might use this as inspiration for something else someday.
Anywho, thanks for reading and now perhaps I can run to the store now that its not raining buckets and get eggs so I can make cupcakes!
I stopped at a KFC on my way home from work and there was a long line. I figured hey, I’m hungry I’ll wait a few extra minutes. It took a while for some customers to receive their food; as the workers were scurrying around the kitchen, they inform some customers of the wait, as they had to make some new batches of sides.
As you can imagine, one customer put up a fit. “This isn’t fast-food,” he says loud enough so the whole dining room can hear him. “We’ve been waiting for several minutes and you don’t have any food. You have to make everything, this is ridiculous. This is the last time I’m coming here!”
The manager was called out to console him, and while the man complains, I can just feel the atmosphere in the room drop: it’s so heavy, full of implications, irritation and impatience.
I roll my eyes and cross my arms. I am irritated because I am hungry and tired, but I know better than to take it out on the poor teenagers making minimum wage. I fantasize taking a big stick and whopping it on the back of the man’s head. I think about confronting him and being like, “Let it go. What is your problem?” But I don’t.
The rude man who is being difficult is asked by the manager, “how can I make this better? What can I do for you? You are our guest, we want to make you happy.”
I’m thinking: What about the rest of us who has to listen to HIM? Who’s going to console us?
Somewhere in this predicament of bad customer service, I think that somethings gone terribly wrong. It makes me think:
How there are two sides to freedom of speech
How social mores sometimes hinder society
And how we need more heroes to stand up to the A-holes of the world
Just something to think about. It was a long wait, lol.
Food for thought…as it were. 😉 Happy Thursday everyone!
I need to do some writing, so what am I doing? I’m sitting here doing everything but that. I’ve painted my fingernails, I’ve gotten on Facebook – I’ve even read a few other blogs here on WordPress, including some of my own posts. Then why aren’t I writing? What am I afraid of? I thought I’ve gotten past all this.
Me, being silly!
I guess the fear was this: What’s the point of writing if its going to turn out terrible? Well, that’s not the point is it? The point is WRITING.
All things writing. Write, write, write, write, write!! Gahhhh….Now why am I sitting here staring and fearing the blank page?
In all things in life you can’t let fear let you get behind, and that includes writing.
I’m even sitting here with my new headphones on (a nice birthday present from yesterday, woo hoo!) trying to drown out the world, and FOCUS.
Hmm…okay, let me visit my book shelf and see if I can scrounge up some writing prompts. That might help.
It’s basically like a writing devotional. It offers you daily writer prompts, as well as lessons for each month on writing and how to improve the craft. I have a tendency to over think some of the writing prompts – actually now I’m starting to realize that I work best sometimes with a challenge. It’s okay to take the prompts where you need them to go.
It is fun sometimes to see how creative you can get. Instead of just one word or one sentence to get the creative juices flowing, lets try about five of them.
Here are the prompts for five days in June from June 6th – June 10th:
June 6:Â While the world sleeps
June 7:Â I have a confession to make
June 8: “There is a place somewhere called Paris”
June 9: Across the railroad tracks
June 10:Â The place where wild pines grow
15 MINUTES ON THE CLOCK….GO!
“There is a place somewhere called Paris,” she told me with a flick of her blond hair as she started reapplying her lipstick. She squinted at herself in the tiny blue compact mirror and then smacked her lips loudly. “They say that everyone walks around naked, I’d like to go there sometime.”
I eyed her smooth body, the tan legs and free arms, the way her hips curved over her jean shorts. “I bet you would.”
“Don’t be an ass,” she snorted as she put her make-up away. “It exists somewhere out west they say, across some railroad tracks at some nudist colony. You know, the place they say where the wild pines grow.”
I couldn’t imagine her anywhere surrounded by naked people, much less trees as a walk through the park seemed too much for her most of the times. She hated the squirrels that scurried down the trees, she hated the babies that cried on the playground, sometimes I think she even hated me.
I was her boyfriend, too. The one she was supposed to love – supposedly.
“I have a confession to make,” I breathed into her ear as I wrapped my arms around her thin frame and crushed those curves against me. “You’re beautiful.” I kissed her neck. “You’re sexy.” My hands trailed down her hips. “You’re lovely.”
She laughed a cruel, sarcastic laugh, and pushed me away. “Please,” she said with her hand on my chest. “Don’t make a fool of yourself.”
“I didn’t want to be here anyway,” I muttered. She’d taken me for a drive, and then had parked on the side of the road across from the local park. I could see pine trees and several screaming kids running towards picnic tables as she’d put the car in park. The air tasted fresh on my tongue, was cool and fresh in my nose.
Then she’d uttered those dreaded words as she turned towards me. “We need to talk.”
We walked hand and hand for about two minutes and then she pulled away from me. I could see the coldness in her posture, the way her body seemed to be trying to avoid me. She adverted her eyes, pretended like she was crying. But I knew she wasn’t.
“You live in your own world,” she continued then. “Like, everyone else could die, and the world could continue sleeping and you would be the one outside of it, like in slow motion or something. Living your life oblivious to those around you.”
God, she was so stupid sometimes. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. The world doesn’t evolve around you Isiah Crane.”
“It doesn’t revolve around you either,” I said.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” she cried, as she turned back towards me. “That sarcasm! You’re so God-damned sure of yourself!”
I thought about that. I mean, why wouldn’t I be? I was smart, strong…and intelligent. I was pretty sure I was good looking. I shrugged. “Yeah, I got nothing.”
She started to cry then, loud, horrible tears. “I don’t understand why you’re so mean to me.” I didn’t really understand anything either. How she seemed to use everything but the truth to get what she wanted. She played games. She probably thought: maybe today, I’ll grab his balls and tug just a little bit more. I winced as I thought about it.
I didn’t want anyone tugging anywhere. “So this is it, huh?”
She brought her hands away from her face. Her mascara had left black tracks down her cheeks. “Aren’t you even just a little bit sad?”
I looked out at the fresh air surrounding us, the trees and green grass and water gurgling in a fountain nearby. Everything seemed brand new all of a sudden. I laughed once. “Should I be?”
I’d like to try something new to add on here – I call it “Character Files.” In my struggle to find some kind of story inspiration some time ago, I purchased a book called Writerific II: Creativity Training for writers by Eva Shaw, which offers encouragement, but most importantly, writing prompts for the creative writer.
One such prompt, has a page full of groups of words. Each group of three words is meant to inspire a story, by using each word in a story or situation that you may create. I decided to take it a step further, and as such created – Character Files.
Each group of words inspired me to create a character, someone who may or may not have a story – a character that I could store away in a file with other characters I created, that I could return to and use that character for story inspiration if need be.
There are a lot of word groups in the writing prompt, and I’ve only created a few different characters already. But I was pleased with the different results. This particular example took me to a place and genre that I don’t normally write, but it allowed for some nice practice of sensory images. Here goes…
The words are: pigeon  voltage  train
“The Conductor”
He is a nobody, tall and willowy with a pale face, and dark brown hair. His back is straight as he sits on the park bench in his navy blue conductor’s uniform, his long legs bunched up in front of him as he reads the newspaper.
           Looking at him, no one would know that he’s killed someone and framed somebody else for it, although, he twitches occasionally at every other sentence he reads. His brown eyes squint, his face bunches and then goes straight. Two-thousand volts of electricity frying their way through his veins. It could have been him. The memories eat at him, peck at his brain like a flock of crows.
           The sight of the butchered man he killed in the alley late that night. The rain pouring in his ears and over the curve of disgust on his lips. The bastard he caught sleeping with his wife…maybe he should have killed her too.
He smelled the rain that night, and he never smelled anything more visceral. Felt his thoughts mix with the sewage and the blood water that swirled around the man’s body, the man that he killed, a milkman, another nobody. What was so important about this stranger that made his wife take her pants off?
He thought, just once – it was a fleeting thought really – that maybe he should be down in the sludge and the darkness of the alley, too. Let the smell of something putrid, the river of feces, blood and rain water pour over him. Feel the fear of something cold and slimy creep its way across his bare skin. Let it feed off of him for a moment and taste the sponginess of his brain, the holes there, the parts that were missing that tasted brown, like something sweet and rotting. Let blood pour out of his nose and his eyeballs bounce down his face. Let him feel hell just once.
Instead, he swiped at the water on his chin, shook his head like a dog, shivered once, pulled his coat around his shoulders and walked home. The knife he used on the stranger who was defiling his wife, he hid in his cousin’s apartment, still wet, the blood dripping.
The next day, while drinking his morning coffee, he placed a call to his local police department to let them know that his cousin, an alcoholic and a man who occasionally liked to feel up little girls, was in town and that he came around the other day begging for money. His cousin had threatened him with a knife, which the conductor described to the police in great detail. A butcher’s knife, he said and then shuddered with a slight catch in his throat. There were groves and barbs on the blade, the kind that shreds through skin when you use it. Mostly likely cut a man in two. Or remove somebody’s head.
The next day he read the front headline of the newspaper while he sat on a park bench on his lunch break: Child Molester Arrested for Murder. He folded the newspaper carefully and tucked it under his arm. The sun felt warm and soft on his navy blue uniform and he looked down at his shiny, black shoes and smiled to himself. It was going to be an excellent day.
I’ve been working on a story/writing for the better part of 2 hours, mostly because I am bored and mostly because I am procrastinating doing laundry – but the reason I decided to post was this: I just realized something.
There is a big difference between writing a story, and immersing yourself in that story. Sometimes you write on the page, but you never become involved. There’s a difference between staying in the present world that you are writing, and emerging into that world, where the sights, scents and conversation is what is around you – not the hum of the fan next to your computer screen, or the traffic outside, or the typing of your hands wandering across your keyboard.
Immerse yourself into that world fellow writers. Become one with the scents, the sounds, the people. It is jarring to come back from such a world sometimes, but if this is what needs to be done, then, hey, I’m all for it.
Now, what was I doing again?
Ah, being a writer really is a lonely thing sometimes. Only we see the world that we are writing and it is sometimes hard to explain to others why they can’t interrupt that thought process.
I compare it to waking up a sleep-walker. Don’t wake up the sleep-walker! It’s all disorienting and confusing. That’s why I always tell my boyfriend: don’t interrupt me when I’m in the middle of writing, its like waking me up from a deep sleep, yanking me away from a world prematurely. (And believe me he’s done it a couple of times, grumble, grumble).
Let the writer wake up in her own time. Ah, but anyway I digress.
Become one with the story…don’t be afraid to dive in! That’s all.
Happy Writing! And to those that are experiencing warmer weather (finally): Big Smiles! Summer is finally here!
This review is based purely on what I have seen on the TV Shows, also…
Spoilers ahead!
Photo source: HBO
Review of episode 6: The Laws of God and Men –
No Starks in this episode. Arya, Sansa, Bran or Jon Snow’s stories were nowhere to be found.
However, we do get to see a great deal of Theon Greyjoy…or what’s left of him. Theon’s sister, Yara, arrives with her ship of men only to discover that the brother she thought she was rescuing is no longer there. Ramsay Snow has completely broken him.
Meanwhile, Daenerys is learning what it means to rule and how time-consuming it is. She meets with subjects in Meereen and deals with the problems in turn. One in particular: her dragons ate someone’s goats. Whoops. She also confronts a man, whose father she crucified. The son now claims that his father was against slavery, and asks permission to bury him according to his customs. Daenerys concedes to the burial, but seems shaken by the confrontation. Perhaps ruling is not what it is cracked up to be?
And on another front, Lord Stannis is denied a loan by the Iron Bank, that is until Davos pleads his case to the committee that he is the real and rightful King.
Varys is confronted by Prince Oberyn in the throne room, and the Prince guesses correctly where Varys is from. It’s the first time I have ever really seen the spider on edge. Varys claims that he was never interested in men or women and says that without desire he is able to focus on more important things. He then looks meaningfully at the Iron Throne after saying this.
Lord Tyrion’s trial begins and we quickly see that the trial is a farce, as does Jaime. Jaime makes an arrangement with his father, Tywin, to pardon Tyrion and let him take the black, as long as Tyrion pleads guilty and has no more outbursts. In return, Jaime will take his place as heir at Casterly Rock.
Tyrion, of course, does not remain silent, as Shae is called to testify against him. She says that Tyrion killed Joffrey with poison to help his new wife, Sansa, get revenge against her slain relatives. I’m just going to come out and say it: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
The episode ends with Tyrion demanding a trial by combat.
My thoughts:
I’ve always liked Shae and could not believe that she would go to such measures to get back at Tyrion. Was she blackmailed? It doesn’t seem like it.
I hate what’s being done to Greyjoy, it’s just awful to watch.
Anything with Daenerys is fun – it’s always great to watch a woman kick ass, and she does it a lot. Compared to Daenerys, it makes me wonder why Stannis wastes his time? He’s never going to win. Stannis’ storyline just seems like a big waste to me.
Also, Prince Oberyn is supposed to be the enemy, but I am finding myself liking his character more and more.
Nothing much else to say about this week’s episode, only that I can’t wait for the next one. I’m a great fan of the Stark sisters, so looking forward to seeing them next Sunday!
What did you think of last night’s episode? Thoughts below if you got ’em!
First things first: Choice of entertainment – The Princess Bride.
A. J. Morse 