This picture pretty much sums up my life the last month. I have grown to hate this man so much because it would seem his main goal in life is to make my life miserable.
For those of you who don't know, Steven Moffat is the head writer of Doctor Who and Sherlock. And he is evil.
The man is a genius honestly. He writes so well, and it seems as though he's writing by the seat of his pants, but he brings it all back together by the end and it all makes sense and you aren't really sure how nut it just does. And the worst thing is you go back farther into a series like Doctor Who and you realize he's had all this planned basically forever. I hate the way he keeps me far too emotionally invested in things and destroys all my hopes and dreams (yes, I'm being a little over-dramatic but I'm upset). I have been up until three o'clock in the morning over both series and in tears more than I care to admit.
But honestly, I would not like either show any other way. I was not a hardcore Whovian before the last month. I started with Nine and was not overly impressed at first, fell in love with Ten and loved the show through series 3, despite my dislike for Martha (another day). But I had a hard time stomaching series 4. It didn't tie together as cohesively as the past seasons, it had become somewhat silly and the stories just generally didn't interest me. Until Silence in the Library. I found myself roped back in by one character. River. I needed to know who she was to the Doctor, what her back story was, why she knew him so intimately and he had no idea who she was. It was River that drove me to keep watching. And I was not disappointed. Where it had taken me roughly seven months to watch the first four series, I finished 5 & 6 in just two weeks. It became an obsession. I fell in love with the show again, loved the way it had changed, despite my reluctance to like Matt at first. And now I can't wait to see what's been cooked up for series &. It's driving me a little crazy quite honestly, all my theories, bouncing around my head.
And then there is Sherlock. The length of the episodes intimidated me, but there were only six of them so I thought "Ehn, what could it hurt?" Appearantly I had a temperory brain lapse and forgot all the things Moffat could hurt. Four days. That's how long it took me to tear through Sherlock, ending with me in a huddled blubbering mess at one in the morning last night.
So the moral of the story is that I am an overly emotional person who gets far too attached to fictional characters and needed to rant about Steven Moffat's evil plots to destroy my happiness. Thank you all for bearing with me!
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