Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Okay, Okay, Fine...

Last week my roommate and I finished the fourth season of Doctor Who, plus the two little movies that came between it and season five.  Since that day, however many it's been now, I have been mourning the loss of the 10th doctor, my beloved David Tennant.  In my mind he IS the doctor.  THE doctor.  The DOCTOR!

I was bawling as I watched those two movies and every time I thought about it in the following days, I found myself bawling again.  And every time I pictured that last scene in my head, after his regeneration, I just growled and cursed Matt Smith and spat on my floor--my own floor--that's how upset I was--and then cried some more.  "Stupid Matt-Stupid-Smith!" I would say, which, on top of making me angry, would confuse me to no end because I actually have a very good friend named Matt Smith, who, funnily enough, was born in England.  "You are not my doctor--you are not THE doctor!"  And then I would have to think about something else because I would be too upset to do anything but sit there being upset.

I warned Pruitt--that's my roommate--that when David Tennant's run came to an end I would have to take a break from the show.  I couldn't just dive right into someone new.  It's like when you're a kid and your dog or cat dies or runs away and your parent(s) ask you if you want to go get a new one.  No, Parent(s), I do not want to go get a new one on the same day I lost my dog/cat.  What's wrong with you??  (Just to be clear, that didn't actually happen to me.  I just know it's a thing that happens sometimes to kids who have dumb parents, who think pets are interchangeable and don't really matter.  Actually, I don't know what they are thinking.  I have no earthly clue what is running through the heads of such parents, but anyway...)  Not that I'm equating my doctor to a pet or reducing him to an animal at all, but you know what I mean.  It's just an analogy--go with it!  Where was I?  Oh, yes.  So I had to have a mourning period.  I was literally in full-on mourning.  The only difference was I didn't wear a black Victorian dress every day for a week.  Partly because I have a job and I can't wear the same thing every day or else people will think I'm a gross girl who wears the same thing every day and doesn't wash her clothes.  Partly because it would be impractical to wear the dress every day, come home and wash it and have it be dry in time to wear it the next day, because of course I don't have money for more than one mourning dress.  Partly because it would be impractical to wear a black Victorian dress during the Texas summer heat.  Partly because it would be impractical to wear a black Victorian dress in the 21st century.  And partly because I don't actually have a black Victorian mourning dress.  But that's neither here nor there really.  (Man, that reason had a lot of parts.)

So I mourned him, as I said, for a week.  Then I started to get the itch.  Actually, the itch started a couple of days ago, but I ignored it, refused to let go of my doctor.  But the itch got worse and worse.  And finally, tonight, I had to scratch it.  It was funny how it happened.  Pruitt came home from work and I was in the laundry room, doing laundry room things, thinking, 'Maybe I should suggest starting season five...'  And Pruitt, who had been extremely understanding about my need to grieve, for the first time in a week, asked me how my mourning period was going and if I was ready to move on.  That settled it.  It's fate, I thought.  What else could explain the fact that he was literally voicing my thoughts concurrently as I thought them?  (Is that redundant?  Oh, well.  Anywho.)  And don't say 'coincidence' you skeptic, black-and-white non-believers.  It was fate.  That's all there is to it.

So first, I caught up on Legend of Korra.  And while we're on it: season finale?  Major. Epic. Brilliance.  Then, Pruitt tentatively asked me if I'd like to watch the first episode of season five.  I sighed, took a moment, and said, "Yes, let's get it over with.  Let's just do this and be done with it."  I mean I was really looking forward to the fact that Steven Moffat had taken over the show as head writer.  He's amazing.  Sherlock, anyone?  So maybe the awesome writing would make up for the now David-Tennant-less show.  (FYI: It did.  Mostly.  Though my loyalty stands and I still say David Tennant would improve the show, as he improves everything he's in.)

And I found that, while I didn't swoon over the 11th doctor, like I did with my doctor, I did enjoy him alright.  He doesn't have the--I'm sorry, Matt Smith--blatent good looks and cute boyish charm of David Tennant, but he does seem to have mastered the energy and comedic timing.  So, we'll see.  I ended up watching episode two as well.  I like Amelia Pond.  She is cute as a button--might be the hottest sidekick yet.  Hm, no I think it's still a toss-up between her and Martha Jones--oh and the last version of Rose Tyler we got.  Season Four Rose was the hottest Rose of all.  I realize I'm talking about the same actress as if she were multiple people.  But dude, she goes through a pretty big overhaul from season one to season two to season four.  Like a fine wine, Rose got better with age (ie. hotter).  And that doesn't usually happen with girls, so good for her.  But I'm digressing big time here.  All I wanted to say was that I love Doctor Who and I'm enjoying season five so far, even though I still miss David Tennant like whoa.

The End.

xxDo I sign my name at the end of my posts in this blog, or do I only do that in my other blog?  Can't Remember...I think maybe I don't but oh, well.

PS. I really, really, REALLY want this to be a tee shirt and not just a funny picture I found on the internet:

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Drunk Poem

This poem is gonna be—oh, wait, I can’t say ‘gonna’ in a poem.  No slang contractions.  That’s not allowed.  Okay.  This poem is going to be about what it’s like—oh, wait, that’s another…but it’s not a slang contraction, so it’s okay, right?  Okay.  This poem is going to be about what it’s like when you spend all your time alone and you…  Wait.  I think I forgot the poem.  I lost it.  Yeah, I did—wait.  …  No, yeah it’s gone.

Really all I wanted to say was that my poetry book just got published.  It's only $3.99 and it's in print!  That's cool, huh?  I think you will like it if you don't like the above paragraph.  I think you will also like it if you do like the above paragraph.

That is all.

There are links to buy on my other blog.  Not puttin' 'em here.  Too lazy.  Long day at work and on my 3rd glass of wine right now before me and the gang go see Prometheus tonight (woo hoo!) so there you have it.

Guys, guys, guys, FYI: I am using the term 'gang' loosely and I'm in no way implying that we carry guns and knives or any weapons really besides our rapier wits;)

Although, some of us (not me) have inherited or simply been gifted various weapons like and including guns and knives.  My fiance has what can only be described as a short sword, which was given to him by his dad for like no reason.  There wasn't a holiday.  Apparently they were just having a sale on swords.  I dunno--this is Texas, what do you want?

Our friend Corey, my fiance's business partner, has about 10,000,000 guns he got from his dad.  And he doesn't even hunt.  At least not very much.  Or at all anymore.  There was a girl I went to school with at UNT--we swam together; I'm an awesome swimmer, don't even care that I'm bragging; it's the truth--and she was this tiny little bubbly blonde girl and she revealed to us (us being her fellow swimmers...swim-mates?) one day that she has no less than 3 handguns.  Whoa.  Hardcore blonde.

What am I talking about?

I also want to clarify that when I say Corey has 10,000,000 guns that I don't actually mean that exact number.  Obviously.  It's probably closer to like 8,000,000.

I have to stop this post now.  Or else you will all think I'm crazy.

But just remember, whenever you think about Erin Irvin as a "crazy" that really she is a "drunk".  Oh, wait.  That's wrong.  I'm not a drunk.  I am just drunk right now.  A little bit.  Not totally gone or else how would I be able to type?  So there!!  I mean, if you think this post is crazy, just scratch that word out in your head with a brain-pencil and replace it with 'drunk' just for this one post.  I rarely drink.  I haven't had any wine in too long to remember because I'm drunk right now.  But it's been a long time.  And it's merlot.  And I can't remember the last time I had merlot because it's been "all Cab all the time" for the past 6 months.

I gotta go, you guys.  Stop distracting me and trying to make me stay here on the internet.  I have to go be with the 3-D people in the other room now or else they will think I am antisocial, which I am not.

I'm not.

Oh, yeah.  PS. My poetry book is called Scrawlings.  There's a tab for it on my other blog.