Ok, first off, The-Guy-I-Have-A-Crush-On:
*sigh* Today he looked like the Tenth Doctor right after he regenerated. He now has Ten’s crazy hair, but today he wore what looked like Nine’s sexy jacket (but brown.) If he wore glasses I’d have exploded all over Spanish class and aimisan would have had to mop me up. (Also: she’s taken to calling me a lesbian. I don’t know why, as I spend much of Spanish class idly conjugating verbs and gazing at that-guy-with-the-10th-Doctor’s-Hair. I retaliated on Tuesday and called her ‘Celery’ because her borrowed-jacket smelled like celery and she was wearing a green shirt. I suck at insults.)
Also, today in a class we were discussing why people do drugs. We’d arrived to the conclusion that we’re all a little unhappy, and that-guy-I-have-a-crush-on said, “We should have trampolines all over the place! Then I’d never go to sleep, I’d just say: there’s so much life to live!” Then he mimed leaping onto a trampoline.
I sincerely hope he doesn’t find my ridiculous high-pitched squeaky worse-than-Hilary-Clinton obnoxious seal-death laugh unattractive because if he does I might have to die of shame and hopelessness, as his dry-wit provokes most of my laughter-attacks.
Next:
Today I realized that the Sawyer/Kate/Jack/Juliet love-square of DOOM reminds me of the whole Spike/Buffy/Angel/Cordelia thingy. I mean, we all thought the Buffy/Angel and the Kate/Jack thing was meant to be, but it turns out that the Kate/Sawyer, Buffy/Spike, Jack/Juliet, and Angel/Cordelia romances make more sense, look better, and bring out the best in the characters.
Of course, now I’ve offended all the Bangles, so I’ll go hide before they team up with the Doctor/Rose shippers and kill me dead. *flees*
*returns to tell you that*
Yesterday I was so tired after going to the Opera on Wednesday night that I passed out in one of the back rows in the theater and didn’t move for like half and hour. It was really fun to listen to people arriving and greeting each other onstage, though …
A person in my house is SICK. I am drinking large quantities of orange juice and planning on a lot of sleep tonight so I don’t get sick (please, gods and goddesses, especially those of the theater, DON’T LET ME GET SICK! PLEASE! After we strike the set, you can smite me with … I don’t know, Bubonic Plague or whatever my housemate has, but PLEASE NOT UNTIL after the set is gone!)
I’ve finally done some profound musings on Doctor Who. I did it last night when I was trying to sleep after Lost and exhausted because of the play and … for a few seconds I thought I was drunk because I NEVER think like this:
The TARDIS and the Doctor changed Martha for the better, unlocking her inner-potential, whereas Rose was always going to have that hopeless, wide-eyed, fantastic-ness. Mickey had to see himself to become himself. Jack had to die to be born. Rose was there to heal, help, guide, and comfort Nine and Ten, to give them someone to chase after and rescue and laugh and dance with – she was there to doctor the Doctor. If Rose hadn’t come first, the Doctor would have been in no condition to bring out the real Martha. The Doctor and Martha doctored each other in the way friends do, though it was mostly Martha gently reminding the Doctor that there is life after Rose, however difficult that is to accept, especially when, just as you think the Doctor’s back on his feet and ready to dance once more, the Master (my only love, sprung from my only hate) starts bounding about.
Doctor Who isn’t just a show about bananas and buffalo and dancing, any more than it’s just a show about ‘that guy with the time-machine.’
(That’s all I got. Weird, eh?)
(And, that’s right, that song is stuck in my head again! … Damn, I lost the game!)
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