I was a huge Doctor Who fan. And by “Doctor Who” I mean “I vaguely put up with the weird sci-fi-ness of the stories in order to watch David Tennant run around and occasionally make out with people can someone please tell me what a Dalek is?”
When Ten left, it was dead to me. I was never going to enjoy it ever again and the world sucks and WHY GOD WHY *headdesk* *woe* *is dead*. Hate. Doctor Who is dead to me. Totally dead.
I did add the fifth season to my Netflix queue for some reason. I mean, I can’t be one of those ignorant people who just hates without knowing what they hate…I need to be informed.
It arrived this weekend and I was ambivalent. I don’t know why I’m even wasting my time. This is ridiculous. I can send it back and get a new movie…ooh, there’s an alien. The alien is rather cool on my new TV. Maybe the alien will kill Newbie. Maybe I’ll watch for a few more minutes.
Six minutes in: Well, he’s being quite sweet with that little girl.
Twelve Minutes in: His hair is floppy.
Thirteen minutes in: I like floppy hair.
Fifteen minutes in: Okay. I can love Doctor Who (the series, not the Doctor) again. I guess. Quietly.
Twenty minutes in: I WILL HAVE YOUR TIME LORD BABIES.
So. I guess I’m just a whore for an accent then?
(Well, I’m also cheap and will say yes. Which sounded way different in my head before I blurted it out in front of my Catholic young adult group. Story for another day.)