Flickr/Tropical.Pete

Hey everyone, I just want to get this out here quickly: I have not seen the new Star Wars yet, and so I'm going to have to request that you do not attempt to communicate with me until I have watched it.

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I do not want to hear your spoilers.

Please do not speak to me, do not email me, do not text me, do not write on my Facebook wall; do not tweet me, snap me, Kik me, or Klout me; do not honk a horn at me, or send me an Edible Arrangement, or attempt to summon me with a Ouija board, or otherwise interact with me in any way.

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The spoilers can arrive in many forms. I cannot take any chances.

I do not want to talk to you if you have already viewed The Force Awakens. I don’t care if you want to discuss your relationship problems, or your promotion at work, or the birth of your daughter; I cannot take the chance that a crucial spoiler might sneak into the birth announcement.

“It’s a girl!” you might scream. And then, overcome by emotion: “I can’t believe it turns out Chewbacca is Jewish!”

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I don’t want to hear that Chewbacca is Jewish. I want to discover that Chewbacca is Jewish, when I view The Force Awakens, and the scene with Chewbacca’s Bar Mitzvah.

I am deleting all of the apps from my phone and programs from my computer; I am unplugging my television and my printer and my refrigerator, which I think is somehow connected to the Internet and which I do not trust not to spoil Star Wars. I have stopped my mail, canceled my cable, and left a note on my door instructing all delivery men to go fuck themselves.

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"I need your signature for this package," the deliveryman could very well say. "Pretty crazy that BB-8 turned out to be a neo-Nazi, huh?"

I am cutting out the media, whom I can not trust not to spoil this cinematic event and the secrets therein. I will not read newspapers, magazines, or Weblogs. I will not watch the evening news, or cable news, or Broadcast News (1987). I will not read The Daily Beast, or the Daily Mail, or Elite Daily, or, just to be safe, back issues of The Daily. I will not even read John Daly’s Wikipedia page.

Spoilers permeate this world, like a dense fog, and I must lock myself away from them. I am a spoiler and you are a spoiler and all of the surfaces that compose this universe have the potential to spoil. Spoilers are the soil and the wind and the rain; to live on this earth is to be prone to Star Wars spoilers, as Sartre once wrote.

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And so this weekend I shall sit alone in my bedroom, the curtains drawn, the lights set dim, blasting the Imperial March into my soundproof headphones until the appointed showtime arrives. I will travel to the movie theater in an Uber, and as soon as I enter the Uber I will instruct my driver to shut off the radio, close the windows, and cease any attempts to make any small talk or take any routes that take us past too many billboards.

Pale, hungry, and vitamin-deficient, I will stumble from his Kia Soul and into the theater, headphones still affixed. Only when the trailers have rolled and the movie begins will I remove them. And then the movie can spoil itself, revealing its beautiful spoilers to me, a cinematic landscape of spoilers.

At that point, we can talk again. But if you haven’t seen The Force Awakens by then, be forewarned: I will almost certainly spoil it for you.