I read spoilers. I can’t help it. It’s like a crippling disease, like some uncontrollable nervous tic, that compels me to destroy all chances of being genuinely surprised by just about any show or movie. Upcoming Game of Thrones episodes? Already know about it. Upcoming Glee episodes? Who told you I watched Glee? Those are vicious lies and slander.
I can see the disappointment in my partner’s eyes when I confess I already knew ahead of time what was about to happen. “Why would you do that?” he says. “It makes watching a show so boring”. What would you know, disapproving soul mate? I have an awesome time. I can even pretend to be psychic with some friends. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if [insert spoiler] happened?” Oh, the fun I have.
And it doesn’t stop there. This behaviour carries over into just about every other situation in my life. Surprises are just something I like to keep at bay, as if they were crazed wildebeests trying to trample my life down. Everything is set out and regimented. I simply must know every detail about a situation or event prior to it happening. The world would be chaos without structure I tell you. Chaos!