Yes, I know. It's starting to sink in that we really won't know what nonsense we all got dragged into until January, and all because of "those sartorial travesties." I know, I know, you're sensitive to costume design and offended by those choices. I know, you aren't looking forward to the possibility of any of yours having to co-exist with someone who has Ramsay Bolton's face. I'm not keen on that, either, though of course by the time I have to co-exist with him, theoretically, I'll have forgotten that connection because of the handwaving nonsense magic of the multiverse, or however you want to put it; hypothetically co-existing with someone who has Nymeria Sand's face makes up for it, though I'm sure being as the films and Netflix shows tend to disregard us entirely I'm sure it will remain hypothetical.
I also know that you're unapologetic about your current stripe of feminist agenda, namely the one that would have just as soon allowed him to throw himself to the wolves. You're angry in ways that I can't bring myself to be, and as I said I do appreciate it, I even envy it. I think I wish I could get angry, expressively, at least a bit. (Thank you, incidentally, for keeping the AIDA in your head more or less the early-on friendly robot. I would loathe trying to coexist with the other iteration, even though I also logically understand that ~Opheeeelia, as you call her, was largely the product of tampering, some intentional and some not, partially done by him even though it's a feedback loop of intention and disaster. I don't know how much of that was real. I don't want to know how much of that was real. I think it's bad enough that I rather know that at least some of it was, in one way or another.) It's more complicated than that, though. I'm angry but I'm also angry at myself, and I'm disappointed, and I'm hurt, and I'm still scared, and I'm lonely, and I'm rather exasperated (cliffhung, I expected, but outer space again? I don't want to be stuck in outer space again! At least I'm presumably not alone this time, although the amount of information everyone's been given about what any of us but Coulson are actually doing means that I do have to quantify that with 'presumably,' which is awful) and --
You're speculating wildly. You're going to be speculating wildly for the next six months. Some of it will come true, although there's no way of telling which part, because you're eerily good at that sometimes but always randomly. I can't help you speculate, not really. It requires a certain detachment. All I can do, and I know you're already looking to let me which is why you're even writing this out, is request politely that I get a chance to process some of what I could potentially be feeling or dealing with. I know that's important to you, that I get to, especially considering I may not be afforded the chance later, and I thank you for that, but I'm saying it here for the record so you can't tell me I didn't (and also with the vague hope that I'll get someone else to talk to, I understand that even if it's a bit embarrassing).