The Middle

In some ways, being in the middle is worse than being at the beginning.

What a crock. If you believe, as I do, that forward is always better, then you should also believe that having a shitty job is generally preferable to having no job at all. Someday, you might have one you’ll like. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Right now, life is shitty. This is hardly new for me. As anyone who knows me or reads this blog will tell you, my life has always been shitty. Very likely, it always will be. In fact, if I ever write my memoirs, the title will be My Shitty Life. It has a ring to it, don’t you agree?

I could talk about all of the ways in which my life is shitty and has been for quite some time, but today, I feel like focusing on something else. I don’t think I’ve written a proper bitch-fest about all of the things wrong with the current iteration of Doctor Who in far too long. Whenever I get the chance, I host Doctor Who screenings with my friends, sometimes going so far as to bake for them because I’m just so wonderful. As some may remember, I used to organize those with another friend before he decided that he didn’t want to do that anymore. A connection was severed, so I started again from the beginning. The first two times, one person showed up. The last time, two people showed up. In another couple years, we might get as many as three or four.

I usually show my friends Classic Who. I’m not dead-set against the New Series; I just figure that since most of my friends are already familiar with that, I might as well introduce them to something new. Too many people dismiss the older stuff because it’s cheaper, slower, and pitched at a different level. The acting, direction, and writing are far more theatrical than anything seen on TV these days. Philistines and cretins will write the classic stuff off as “unwatchable” or “boring”. I say they need to give it a chance. Original Series episodes were just under a half hour, not an hour like the New Series, and since each one ended on a cliffhanger, it’s generally a good idea to watch one a day to get in the mindset of the viewers of the original broadcasts, who had to wait a whole week to see how the Doctor got out of this one. One of my favorite storylines from the early era is called The Mind Robber, which is set in a pocket dimension so that the sets can consist largely of blank walls. (The production team had squandered their budget on the previous serial.) When the actor playing one of the companions got sick, the writers conjured up a scene in which an alien messed up his face so that another actor could play him that week. They were really thinking on the fly in those days.

It is becoming apparent to me that “home”, like so many other concepts, is a state of mind. Ultimately, this is probably for the better. I hate hearing people my age say they’re going “home” to visit their family. To me, home is the place where you live and go about your business, not the place where you grew up or your parents live. Searching for an apartment is much like searching for a job. You reach a point where you are so desperate that you marvel that somebody doesn’t just give you one. You have money to pay rent/are a competent employee, and aren’t asking for anything except a bed/a little money. Why is it so hard to find someone who will give you a leg up? When I write my memoirs, I will devote an entire chapter to my inability to find stable housing. I’ve already written one chapter about my nerdy obsessions and another about my arch-nemesis. If I’m ranking the things that have caused me stress and aggravation in my life, the search for a soft, warm place to lay my head probably places just below those two.

My life is shitty. That’s a fact. Perhaps someone will point out that I’m better off without the friends who have abandoned me, that I don’t really want to work at the jobs where they didn’t want me, and so on. But that’s not the point. Just once, I’d like to be in a position to say no. I’ve been kicked out of several apartments over the past year. In every case in which there is some problem with my roommate, the result is that I become homeless. That really isn’t fair. My fifth-grade teacher used to respond to our complaints about unfairness with, “The world’s not fair. Get used to it.” Fuck you. I’ll keep complaining until I get what I’m owed. And part of that, believe it or not, is the feeling that my constant complaining about geeky things like what a total fucking cunt Rose Tyler was in her later seasons and how thoroughly Steven Moffat’s writing is at odds with the spirit of Who is actually having an impact. Sooner or later, someone has to care.

That or, you know, I kill everyone. I read this interesting article not too long ago about how radical anti-Semites are accusing Zionists of using homosexuality to conquer the globe. If that worked, it would be beyond brilliant. I’ve been trying to take over the world through the use of sentient robots that are fiercely loyal to me, but I can’t figure out how to make them intelligent and capable of reasoning while still ensuring that they won’t turn on me. So basically, I’m trying to succeed where a million mad scientists have failed. But if I get an apartment, I might not have to take over the world. It’s that simple.


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