hello (again)

I'm back because an old friend made me promise to put up at least one new blog post this week. She said I "owe it to myself", and even if it's difficult or not particularly enjoyable, I need to start somewhere before it begins to get easier. And I'm somewhat surprised and saddened at how difficult this is right now - I have to think longer before the words come to mind, before sentences form. Everything feels clunky and awkward. It's been too long since I've written anything longer than a text message.

It's been a long year (!) of me leaving things unfinished - or worse - unstarted. Call it a quarter-life crisis if you will? But I've been overcome with the irrational and unshakable belief that nothing can go wrong if I just don't start anything. And so I've left books unread, TV shows and movies unwatched, many emails and texts unanswered. I've let this blog go. I have been unemployed and miserable. I have avoided friends and acquaintances because I can't face them with this deep, burning shame about the fact that I'm not being an adult in the right way, the proper way. I could probably count the number of times I've left the house in 2015 on one hand.

It's a pathetic state, you guys. It's a haze of self-pity, apathy and crushing self-doubt that has imposed itself for weeks, months. I no longer believe that I'm witty or smart or fun to be around or a good writer or a competent worker or a great friend, no matter who tries to tell me otherwise.

My desire to dress up or at least maintain my appearance has nosedived as well - I'm ugly, worthless. Who cares if I haven't had a haircut in a year? I want pity and understanding from people about this state of mind, but I hate myself for asking this of my friends and family. It's not their job to tell me to get my shit together. That is entirely on me. But even trying to start is pretty hard. It gets comfortable down here, wallowing in one's own negativity. Once you've shifted gears to "EVERYTHING IS SHIT" in your mind, it's so hard to look at anything with positivity or potential or worth, especially yourself.

I can't say exactly what triggered this state of affairs for me, but the primary culprit seems to be a paralyzing fear of mediocrity and/or failure, exacerbated by the unrealistically high expectations I've set for myself (and that I imagine other people have set for me - I can't even seem to take a compliment these days without teetering on the edge of panic and wondering what do they want from me??).

But the good thing here is that at least I have some self-awareness that this is not a great place to be, and in many ways the only thing anchoring me to this mental and emotional shithole is myself. I would love it if I could simply "snap out of it". But this kind of thing takes a lot of work, unfortunately, and I'm trying to take small but sure baby steps out of it. And one small, sure thing I can do right now is to start blogging again.

At first considered just deleting this one, burning all my old posts to the ground and moving on to Wordpress or something. But it really is a shame to destroy all my older ramblings, the stuff that kept you guys coming back and forged friendships and connections. But a fresh start (literally and symbolically) is probably what I really need now, so I'll leave this blog up for posterity and come back with a link to my new blogging platform of choice once I've set things up over there. And if even one or two of you lovely people would be willing to update your blogroll and tag along with me, it would be ever so appreciated.

Here's to (tentative) new beginnings.

Next Stop; Everywhere :: Or, One Girl's Incredibly Mushy Love Letter to 'Doctor Who'

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Let us - for now, at least - put aside the fact that the last time I posted about Doctor Who,  it was essentially a breakup letter outlining all my issues with problematic aspects of the show, and my painful decision to stop watching until a new Doctor (or better still, a new head writer/showrunner) takes over.

And then the 50th anniversary episode happened.

Don't get me wrong, my issues with the show's current writing still stand. I have an an entire alphabetical + annotated mental folder about everything that was problematic about the 50th anniversary episode, including that Mother of All Retconned Plot Arcs (for the record I'm just going to take a leaf out of the rebooted Star Trek's book and pretend that everything that happens in the Whoniverse from this point onwards will be taking place in an alternate timeline, because that is the only way I can make sense of things). And I still kind of want to whack Steven Moffat in the face with a frying pan, if the opportunity were to present itself.

But Sunday's The Day of the Doctor also gave me two things. Two sort of lovely things. Two moments of heart-swelling-throat-lumping-spine-chilling magic that I haven't experienced from Doctor Who in a long, long, long time.

One was the final shot of all twelve doctors gazing out into space, together.

The other was a ridiculously epic cameo appearance from the 12th and next Doctor, Peter Capaldi, which was pretty much nothing more than a 2-second shot of his eyes and forehead. Fandom proceeded to promptly and collectively lose its shit ohmygod. 

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In spite of the clusterfuck of hits and misses which constituted the rest of the anniversary special, I found myself genuinely enjoying Doctor Who for the first time in years. I even felt like a little of its old heart had found its way back, against all odds. And that's the annoying and completely wonderful thing about this weird little TV show that wormed its way into my heart 8 years ago and doesn't seem to want to let me go - I still love it to pieces, in spite of everything.

I was 15 when Doctor Who was first rebooted for a modern audience, and I was 16 when I tumbled headfirst into this odd world of spaceships that looked like phone boxes on the outside and quaintly horrible special effects. The first episode of the show I ever clapped eyes on was the final half of Doomsday, and I bawled. I cried like a fucking baby for fictional characters I had only met 20 minutes ago. And the only thing I could think of was where has this been, where has this show been my entire life? (on an incredibly extended hiatus from the 1980s, as it turns out).

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It was a little tough trying to get friends into the show as well, considering how the series was still trying to find its feet and establish itself in the modern canon. Also, just you try explaining the premise of the show to someone who has never heard of it ; a 900 year old humanoid alien who travels in an inter-dimensional spacecraft which happens to look like a blue police box (but is much bigger on the inside because SCIENCE FICTION) and who convinces people (usually young women - try to make that sound not creepy, go on) to join him on journeys across time and space.

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I can't tell you how much of my mid-to-late adolescence was spent on elaborate daydreams about running away with the Doctor to far away places and far away times (a lot of my adolescence, okay, a lot of it). How much I started falling in love with the Doctor's companions, because - and I've said this before - the show may have his name in the title, but it sure as hell isn't about him. This show is about the very ordinary people who discovered that they could do and be extraordinary things. The shopgirls and medical students and temp secretaries who bumped into a strange man with a magic wooden box full of forevers, a strange man who whirled them around galaxies and universes and helped them be the best versions of themselves they could possibly be. A strange, wonderful man who held humanity by the hand and showed us exactly how pitifully insignificant we really are in the grand scheme of things, but also how important we are, how powerful, how capable of love and courage and imagination and curiosity.





A very wise man once said that Doctor Who is "the triumph of intellect and romance over brute force and cynicism". And while the newer episodes may not reflect that for me personally, a little of the old magic does come trickling back now and then. I almost always come away from an episode of Who feeling a little warmer, a little fuller, a little richer, a little bit more in love with humanity, with friendship, with myself, with the spirit of discovery and adventure, with life, with the stars. With that ridiculous phone box-time machine-spaceship. With that strange wonderful man who keeps changing faces.

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Doctor Who is always going to be much more than just a TV show to me. And as bitterly disappointed as I have been with the last few seasons, and as much as I understand fans being ferociously angry with the revelations of the 50th anniversary episode, I can't help but feel impossibly excited about - finally - getting a new Doctor. I am pumped about Peter Capaldi's upcoming tenure as the 12th version of the Doctor ; the man managed to completely own his role in the span of roughly 3 seconds of screen time and 4 spoken words of dialogue, and I cannot wait to see what he does with a full episode.

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Minus the cussing, maybe.
Oh who am I kidding it's about time we get a Doctor who spews profanity across all of time and space.


p.s Also let's pretend that this isn't the first time I've posted in this dump since August or whatever. I didn't even bother starting off with an apology for my absence so let's just be cool, okay.

p.p.s You guys also have the lovely Lady Disdain to thank (or blame) for my return to the blogosphere. She used a highly effective combination of flattery and thinly veiled threats of violence which succeeded in spurring me into action. Minimal guilt, maximum results!

And I Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore

I was an insufferable music snob from the age of 15 to about 19 or so. Discovering the world of indie music was wonderful and exciting and all sorts of amazing - and I wouldn't trade it for the world - but it also somehow warped my then-teenage brain into believing that I had somehow achieved a sort of moral high ground. As though my impeccable taste in sweet tunes had also somehow ensured that I was that much more cultured, evolved and generally so much better than everyone else who still listened to mainstream radio stations. I wasn't like other kids my age, man. I was different. I had the entire discography of The Smiths on my shiny new mp3 player. I was something else. I was edgy. I was deep, you guys.

I insisted on bringing my mp3 player nearly everywhere I went so that my friends would be able to allow The Strokes and Belle & Sebastian to wash over their poor good music-deprived souls. I would refuse to admit that anything on the radio was good, and if I had to go there, I'd always add that snootiest of all disclaimers: "It's good, for a mainstream song". Anything current on MTV was treated with contempt. I was above the mainstream. I had transcended the reach of the Lady Gagas and the Rihannas of the world. I had evolved into a higher being.


Looking back on that phase now with a mixture of horror and amusement, I wonder how I even got through a whole week without some sort of spiritual breakdown. Dealing with grades and friends and homework and hormones and self-esteem issues would have been difficult enough without the added pressure of constantly upholding a veneer of musical cool for everyone else's benefit. Because doing that is exhausting. It was physically and mentally draining to constantly care so hard and so obsessively about what the music section of my Myspace bio looked like to other people, and making sure I was never caught admitting that I sort of really liked that one Fergie song.

There are several good lessons I could impart at this point, kids. That your taste in music does not define your worth as a person. That listening to obscure post-punk pre-Britpop jazz dubstep retro hip-hop psych-folk bands does not make you better or smarter than the girl singing along to a Katy Perry single. That liking Maroon 5 "ironically" isn't really worth your time, either. Cut that shit out. You wanna sing along to Adam Levine's whiny ass vocals, you do that.

But most importantly, I just need to stress how exhausting my brand - or really any type - of music snobbery was. Music is beautiful and incredible and a huge part of my life but it is also, paradoxically, not all that fucking important. Not important enough to craft and maintain an entire personality around the things you definitely Do Not Listen To, Not Ever OMG. Like whatever it is that you like, whatever floods into your earholes and makes your heart happy. And perhaps most importantly, do not ever shit on other people for liking whatever it is they enjoy listening to.

edit: I feel like I should add that sharing music isn't something I would actively discourage. One of my favourite things to do in the whole world is recommending new music to people, typically through physical mixtapes or 8tracks. Discovering a really great song and letting someone else listen to it and then capslocking at each other about how much you both love it is great. A+, don't ever stop sharing good jams. But it also took me a while - years in fact - to deal with the very simple reality that not everyone is going to dig everything I like. The world doesn't end. The other person isn't a jerk. You can still be friends. Get over yourself. Rinse and repeat until you finally get it into your head.

I know some folks are calling this the new form of post-hipsterism, where music snobs relinquish their hold on ironically liking mainstream things and pretend to be into radio-friendly material in an effort to show how totally cool and secure they are in their musical identity. And you know what, screw that. I am tired. I am the world's oldest 23-year old and I am really tired of labeling and being labeled, and being told what my iTunes playlist says about me. Put whatever the bleeding hell you like on your playlists, friends, and let others do the same.

It is with this hard-earned enlightenment that I can now tell you that I have listened to this One Direction song so many times today that I am fully expecting to receive an email from Youtube asking me if I'm okay and if I need anything. There. And let me tell you that 17-year old me would have probably started crying at the prospect of having to admit this to anyone. Don't do that to yourselves. DON'T FIGHT THE LOVE, GUYS.