There's an old Roman proverb or Irish saying of sorts, I'm pretty sure it's in the Bible. I'm paraphrasing, but it basically says, "You don't miss something until it's gone."
It took five seasons to grow on you and one moment to kill you.
My emotions can best be summed up by a 2001 Ricky Martin and Christina Aguilera collaboration: "Nobody wants to be lonely. Nobody wants to cry. My body's longing to hold you. So bad it hurts inside."
So bad it hurts inside, indeed.
You were iconic. A rarity. A "diamond in the rough."
A place to land. A feeling of home. Right where I want to be.
Weep no more, Baby Judith.
All beards grow back.
And we all know some fucked-up shit is about to go down in Alexandria so Rick's going to have to leave and not shave for five more seasons.
Rest on thy sheaves. Thy harvest work is done.*
Weep not, the beard is not dead but sleepeth.
Fuck razors and society's standards of beauty. Bye.
