I honestly don’t know why I watch Doctor Who. After finishing the first series in the course of three days, I find myself wondering how I got to this state. I was once normal, or as normal as a guy like me can get, but then I was swept off my feet by bananas and Scotsmen and police boxes and timey-wimey stuff. It’s not that there’s anything of extraordinary literary merit in Doctor Who–no, the intrigue comes from the absurd elements and unexpected plot devices. Having spent the large majority of my childhood delighting in the surreal, I find the Doctor’s ineluctable ability to baffle reassuring. After all, confusion is a natural state.
Excuse me for the brevity of this post. I must pry the television remote from the cold, dead hands of my once-beloved kin.