It will come as a complete shock to anyone reading this that I have very strong opinions. So do me a favor: if I ever disagree with you on something, don’t just say, “Well, to each his own.” Argue with me, for fuck’s sake. What is life for if not a lively exchange of ideas? Of course, the instant you engage me in a debate, I am likely to start calling you names and belittling everything you stand for, but if you can’t handle that, why are you even talking to me? If you set out to change people’s opinions every time you speak, you will only alienate them. That’s not why I argue. I do it to better appreciate our differences.
I hate Matt Smith. If you’re not familiar, let me fill you in: he’s the latest incarnation of the BBC’s most popular Time Lord, the 11th Doctor. I want him to die. Every time he is onscreen, I pray that he will get smacked right in his self-consciously quirky hipster face. His entire shtick reeks of a couple of middle-aged network executives sitting around a conference table arguing over what “the kids” are into these days:
EXECUTIVE #1: According to my nephew, these days, they are into something called “hipster”.
EXECUTIVE #2: Hipster? Is that anything like being hip?
EXECUTIVE #1: Hardly. “Hip” is actually kind of cool, if a little outdated. “Hipster” involves being as insufferably precious as possible, knowing all sorts of obscure trivia and calling attention to your own cleverness to the point where any sane person would want to rip out your anus and feed it to you.
EXECUTIVE #2: How does a…hipster…dress?
EXECUTIVE #1: Usually in a bow tie with floppy hair and a smug grin on their face.
EXECUTIVE #2: Let’s adopt that look for the next Doctor.
EXECUTIVE #1: Then we can suck each other’s dicks.
EXECUTIVE #2: Great! You know how much I love snowballing.
Sadly, I seem to be in the minority in my vitriolic loathing of this man. Even Neil Gaiman, the Greatest Writer in the History of Things, thinks he’s amazing. I’m at a loss. If any of my friends acted like that, they’d be dead by my hand. But since people whose opinions I respect like him, I am forced to grit my teeth rather than hunting him down and dangling him over a pit of lava by his urethra. I don’t have a better conclusion to this part of the article. If you don’t watch Doctor Who, you have no idea what I’m talking about. Just accept that I’m right and move on.
Sometimes I have trouble sleeping. It’s not nearly as bad as it used to be, but to put it simply, my mind won’t always let me rest. It’s eleven at night and I’m tired, but I still can’t sit still because there’s something in my head that won’t let go of me until I let it out. I can write several thousand words in one day and still have room for more. I’d say that I’m going insane, except that I never was sane, and I have no measuring stick by which to know if I’ve gone off the deep end. If I end up killing everyone and setting the world on fire, I’d like to apologize in advance. It’s my brain. It won’t stop screaming.
Now that I’ve excised my daily nerd rage, I’d like to talk about something far more substantive: masturbation. I’m getting tired of it. If you’ve talked to me for upwards of three seconds, you know how much I hate being single. I’m not that picky, honestly. I know that I can’t have Brad Pitt, but why is Taylor Lautner so much to ask? It’s not like his career in Hollywood has that much longer to go, anyway. Why not send him over to my house? Despite the rather pedophilic turn that his character takes in the fourth Twilight book, he’s still more likeable than Edward Cullen. Fuck that—Hannibal Lecter would make a better boyfriend.
Remember my just saying I was out of nerd rage? I lied. I’m getting sick of people complaining about the Lost finale. Why is it so hard to accept that by that point, the mysteries weren’t really what the show was about anymore? I’m not just going to say “it’s about the characters” and leave it at that; for the first few seasons, I still wanted to know what Walt’s secret power was, who the Others were, and what they wanted with Claire’s baby. But after six seasons of being jerked around, I can’t say I was expecting the show to end with a monkey talking directly to the camera and explaining every solution step-by-step. Isn’t it enough that the show introduced questions about faith, love, and the meaning of life? How could a mere TV show provide satisfactory answers to questions that big? Personally, I’m glad that producers Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse didn’t even try. It gave me something to think about.
There’s a disease that afflicts certain shows going into their finales. I call it “finale-itis”, for lack of a better term. The worst case I ever saw was the Babylon 5 finale, an episode so cheesy that you could practically hear the writer/director standing offscreen telling the actors to speak slower because it’s their last episode, and…it has…to be…meaningful. At least it was a fitting resolution for the show. Don’t even get me started on the Battlestar Galactica finale. That was an hour of TV that reeked of “Okay, we don’t know how it’s supposed to end, so let’s just use a deus ex machina and hope everyone is okay with that.” Can you imagine the laziness of a writer not even bothering write a proper conclusion?