In the end, the message was that if we truly love The Doctor, we’ll always be there for him no matter what face he’s wearing. And while I can’t completely get behind that statement – I am, after all, a champion 10th Doctor Hater – I understand the sentiment.
I can’t wait to see the Nth Doctor with my grandchild and re-discover that wide universe again through their eyes.
Me: That guy looks like…Friend: Matt Smith, yeah M/F: wait…
I was completely paralyzed with anticipation for the Doctor Who premiere. Tried reading a book….couldn’t concentrate. Tried doing some writing, some drawing, some cleaning up…..could not concentrate. So, I took a nap. Then I trolled Etsy for TARDIS stuff.
It’s pretty typical for me to shove down my daily frustration and press on, to the point that when something even remotely sad happens on TV, I immediately become a sobbing mass of humanity on the couch, trying to hug a cat that wriggles away, leaving me to clutch an old throw pillow.
Even as a villain, I love River Song. She’s supplanting Gwen Cooper as my go to gal for awesome.
I want all of the Doctor’s rescue party to have spin-off shows. Nurse Strax could be like an intergalactic Nurse Jackie, only without the drug addiction/adultery angle. Dorium Maldovar’s spin-off could show the dark underbelly of the universe. Vastra and Jenny could do whatever they want as long as they continue to be witty, bad ass swordswomen in the 19th century.
Prior reports of my dissatisfaction toward series six and America’s tendency to ruin things may have been greatly exaggerated. This is to be expected as I usually operate in two tenses:
These tenses tend to manifest simultaneously, resulting in grossly dramatic occurrences of negative hyperbole.
It’s not that I’m pissy about Doctor Who being more accessible to new viewers. I want new people to watch it. The more people there are in the United States who watch Doctor Who, the more people there are for me to talk to.