This is all I need. I finished Season 1 of the new Dr. Who series, and it ended up with me half in tears and all obsessed. This show is so amazing, despite the fact that I had to be patient through the first few episodes, like when Micky was being attacked by a dumpster for some reason.
I can’t believe I haven’t been in love with this since the 90s, when Rose’s hair would have seemed less power-ballad inspired. Who cares? I AM IN LOVE WITH DR. WHO NOW.
This next Tennant dude had better be as wonderful as Eccleston.
Do you know what excellence feels like? TOO BAD. I DO. I just had a legitimate business meeting with Brandon from School of Humans, and he was radical. Plus, he had a luxurious beard, which you should definitely be jealous of.
I really hold back on going all business-y on md.c but…I am so entrenched in work that I feel like it’s a RIPOFF if I don’t at least admit that I talk and think about work 23/7.
Here is a photo to distract you from the lame typing I just did:
When I was 15, me and four of my girl friends wore all black to school on Valentine’s Day. We felt so powerful and excellent and desperately lonely. We watched the Craft that night in Dinas living room to un-celebrate because love is for the weak. We all agreed that wearing rosaries was cool enough to override the practice being a religious foul, but only after a brief conference. We got bored so we walked to Kroger and took our blood pressures and purchased dumb shit. Mascara, Fresca, let’s split-a-Twix, does anyone have forty three cents I can borrow?
We really loved each other and we were not alone at all.
I came home from work today and my husband said to me “I got your Valentine’s Day present. It’s dumb.”
But Valentine’s Day was yesterday. We ate soup and quesadillas in bed and drank spiced wine and watched Sons of Anarchy.
"I ordered it off the internet."
He handed me a cross bow. We went outside barefoot to shoot boxes in our yard together, and if I were 15
I would have high-fived myself.
I am suffering like a chump, staring into the ceiling fan and quietly lamenting the complicated dynamics of a million little things. I remember my mother shouting at me in the laundry room late Christmas night. I think about what each and every account is doing at work. What’s up, what’s down, and whether or not the patterns seem random. I think about driving through traffic when some blonde woman starts screaming out the window of her PT cruiser after I cut her off. I wonder which of my friends will get cancer next. I keep replaying a stupid conversation in my head and thinking about what I wish I had said.
Do you think…
He says as I lay there on his chest. I stop thinking.
Do you think The Lion King has ever been performed… ON ICE?
Yes. I explain through critical levels of giggling.
And oh, my god,
I love him.