We want you to know that we don’t blame you. “We” meaning “The Walking Dead” fandom, of course.
We don’t blame you for who you are or what you’ve become. We know you started off with such great potential, so you can’t imagine how hard it was for us to just sit here and watch your destruction unfold.
The good ol' days.
We’d forgive you if it was your fault, but it’s not. You’re but a fictitious character living in a fictitious world, and someone had to make you the way you are.
So it’s a shame they ruined you. They took every good bit about you and buried and hid it away.
And that’s why you need to die.
We’ve spent three seasons with you, and we’ve experienced every trial and ounce of pain and sorrow you’ve lived through: The world going topsy turvy, your sister’s death, the time you almost killed Daryl, those times you got dirty with Shane, and all of the times you had a chance to kill the Governor but didn’t. (You also got dirty plenty of times with the Gov, but we digress.)
During the first and second season, you were a likeable and relatable character, one that seemed real and one we, the fans, could grow with.
We'll remember the good times we shared.
Then season three happened and you took a turn for the worst. You had hardened during your travels with Michonne, that’s certain. But when you met the Governor, you became weak in the knees and let hormones take over.
We understood for a little bit: You had a warm bed to sleep in and a warm body to share it with. You had security, safety and luxuries. You thought you had it made.
Then you just started to get stupid. Even though you had all of the evidence of the Governor’s ill deeds right in front of you, you second guessed yourself. This caused your inability to act. This caused the deaths of good people. It caused a war between Rick’s group and Woodbury.