This post serves as a reminder to book those tickets for myself and Benjen Stark, a one-way trip to pleasure town. Yeah, not roundtrip; like The Wall there ain’t no returning from where we going. I know you’re a part of that emo celibacy club and you swore an oath, but oaths — much like world records, diets, and our hopes and dreams — are meant to be broken. Call me, boo. Hit me up with a late-night raven. Don’t leave a lady hanging. Unless, you know, you actually have been dismembered by a White Walker or you’ve been converted into a zombie popsicle, then, just, like. Ignore this message.