I’M FUCKING SAD. I’M ABOUT AS BROKEN UP AS VOLDEMORT’S FUCKING SOUL. IT’S THE END OF AN ERA. FOR ALMOST FIFTEEN YEARS I’VE BEEN ON THE EDGE OF MY FUCKING SEAT, LAUGHING, CRYING, SLAMMING 900 PAGES SHUT IN FRUSTRATION, OPENING THEM BACK UP TO RE-READ, AND MAKING HILARIOUS WIZARD-THEMED JOKES ALONG THE WAY. I’VE BEEN TO FLAMBOYANT MIDNIGHT BOOK RELEASE PARTIES, I’VE KNITTED MYSELF A GRYFFINDOR SCARF, I’VE GOTTEN IN HEATED DEBATES (“OF COURSE YOU CAN’T USE A FUCKING DUPLICATION CHARM ON MONEY, YOU DON’T THINK ALL MINISTRY OF MAGIC-ISSUED CURRENCY HAS FUCKING RESTRICTIONS ON IT?”), I’VE WHISPERED “ALOHOMORA” UNDER MY BREATH AFTER I LOCKED MY KEYS IN MY CAR, JUST IN CASE I’M A FUCKING SQUIB OR SOMETHING AND DON’T KNOW IT YET. AND IF YOU FUCKING GET IT, YOU’VE PROBABLY DONE THESE THINGS TOO. J.K. ROWLING, YOU’VE BROKEN OUR HEARTS ABOUT A MILLION TIMES (END OF BOOK SIX; STILL NOT OVER IT), BUT MORE THAN THAT, YOU’VE GIVEN US AN IRREPLACEABLE CAST OF CHARACTERS IN A SETTING THAT INDULGES THE IMAGINATION OF PEOPLE AGES 5 TO 555 (FOR THOSE WHO HAVE EXTRACTED THE ELIXIR OF LIFE FROM THE SOURCERER’S STONE). J.K., YOU’RE A GENIUS AND AN INSPIRATION AND A BEAUTIFUL FUCKING HUMAN BEING. I FUCKING RESPECT YOU. THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING. IT’S BEEN AN AWESOME FUCKING RIDE. YOU FUCKING GET IT.
