(scene opens on Vastra, Jenny, and Strax)
Vastra: We need to find the Doctor! Something terrible has happened in Victorian London once again!
Jenny: But where could he be?!
When have I quit smoking?
We’ve been rewatching all of Doctor Who recently, and it makes me so happy that my vape could pass for a sonic screwdriver.
So, I recently finished up the latest season of Orange is the New Black (yeah, yeah, I know, slow on the uptake). I thought it was pretty good overall, but one subplot in particular seems to have caught the eye of a lot of reviewers and viewers alike is the one revolving around Tiffany Doggett and Charlie Coates.
It’s been just over two weeks since I last had a cigarette, and I’m finding myself turning to other things to keep myself occupied.
This has been my week; coffee and (not) cigarettes.
In a few days time, I will be heading ACROSS the COUNTRY to visit my darling best friend ELLIE for her birthday. In penance for the carnage that shall ensue, I figured it was best to get another recap up before I’m out of commission for the rest of the week in horror and disgust of the things I said and did on that fateful day. To the recap!
Well, another season done with.
Before we get into the discussion of the season as a whole, I suppose we should talk about this week’s episode, The Doctor Falls. The Doctor ends up chased out of a city overrun with cybermen with Nardole, CyBillman, and the two Masters in tow, and winds up fighting to keep a small farming village safe from the oncoming cyber-army. It was, in many ways, an episode of goodbyes – a goodbye not just to characters, but to Moffat’s tenure over the show as a whole (yes, his kiss-off will be the Christmas special in December, but this is the last season of the show he’ll run).
I’ve never been precious about Edgar Wright. I know a lot of people are, and with reason – for many, he was their introduction to the meta-deconstruction, putting together movies (Sean of the Dead, Hot Fuzz) and TV shows (Spaced) that lovingly and mercilessly picked apart pop culture at the seams. I didn’t grow up on him – my meta-analysis came from anime parodies and Charlie Brooker – and came to Edgar Wright and his movies late enough that I’ve never built up a particular soft spot for his work. I like it very much, but he’s not one of my movie makers. But for a lot of people, he is, and given how much I hated his new movie Baby Driver, I can’t even imagine how conned they felt.
It’s been nine days since I had a cigarette, and I’d forgotten how weird it is to give up smoking.
This vape pen cost less than a twenty deck, and I can’t tell you how much that fucks me up.
I’m content right now. I’ve been listening to eighties pop, trying to French inhale with my new vaporiser, and dancing with the cat all night, and I feel good. Which feels like something close to a miracle, because a few months ago, I was so depressed that I was legitimately struggling to get out of bed in the morning, and when I’m in those states, it feels like the only thing facing you is this unassailable wall of shit, on the other side of which is another, more festering, more rancid pile of shit – you know, something like Game of Thrones’ treatment of women in season four. It feels fucking endless, and even though I could lie there, one hand in the eleventh bag of crisps of the day and the other to my mouth so I could chew off what remained of the skin around my fingers, and know that I had gotten out of worse in the past, I just for the life of me couldn’t see a way out of this one. It felt permanent – terminal, in the least fatal way possible.
The Cutprice Guignol 