Love Letter, pt. 14

Dear Rory Williams,

I love you, big nose and all.

You were (and still are, actually) my favourite companion. Err … I mean companion to the Doctor. You weren’t my companion. Yet. Maybe.

Excuse me a moment while I pretend that the words you are saying are "I love you, Sarah." I mean, really, it's not like I've ever been known for reading lips ...

Excuse me a moment while I pretend that the words you are saying are “I love you, Sarah.”
I mean, really, it’s not like I’ve ever been known for reading lips …

Shut up, Sarah! Just be cool!

Ok. Let me start this again.

Dear Rory,

I love you, deeply and unabashedly.

You are charming, funny, loyal, caring, kind, and, if we’re being perfectly honest, the most amazing man to ever grace my television screen (except maybe Marshall, but let’s not go there).

Your intense loyalty to Amy Pond brought tears to my eyes repeatedly. 2000 years guarding the Pandorica? Mouthing off to Cyber-Men? The way you cried when you first held your daughter? You are genuinely swoon-worthy.

Oh-so very swoon-worthy.

And when you sacrificed yourself to the Weeping Angels? You, my darling Rory, broke my heart. Honest. That scene is still one of my favourites in all of Doctor Who (take that, Rose).

Smolder for me baby!

Smolder for me baby!

And though you have very permanently been ripped out of the story line I still cross my fingers and hold out hope that one day you and Amy will return, ready to sass it out with the new Doctor who would probably be annoyed and delighted to no end.

(Are you reading this, Steven Moffat? I’ve got some great story ideas if you’d like to give me a call? Feel free to drop me a line on this here blog and we’ll discuss.)

But until that day comes I will just have to content myself by watching old episodes repeatedly while I shop for witty Doctor Who accessories online.

I love you, Rory. Thank you for showing me what it truly means to be a companion.

With all of my heart,

S.M.R.P.

PS. I had a pretty big crush on Arthur Darvill, the actor who portrays Rory, until I discovered on one of my many internet searches that he’s apparently super into taxidermy which freaked me out a fair bit. Alas, they can’t all be perfect.

That WOULD be distracting! Oh, Rory. How I love thee!

That WOULD be distracting! Oh, Rory. How I love thee!

Of Love and Christmas Lights

My first love was a boy named Theo. We were best friends as children and I loved him before I even knew what the word meant.

But that’s not who this story is about.

No, this story is about a much, much later love. Jesse. Jesse was a boy I shared a class with in Middle School who I was absolutely obsessed with. He was blonde, which goes against my type, but somehow I still adored him.

Back in the day (and even now, I suppose) I always discussed things with my Dad, so of course he knew about my love of Jesse. Dad and I would sit together every Wednesday night in front of ‘Gilmore Girls’ and I would gush poetically about Jesse while my Dad would ask sensible questions like “Well, did you actually talk to him today?” and “How can you possibly be in love with someone you are afraid to talk to?”

(Sensible questions are the worst.)

My Dad and I talked about everything from the quick and witty exchanges Jesse and I had in my head, to the actual stilted and awkward conversations we shared in class where I stared intensely in what I thought back then was my best “flirtatious face” but have since realized makes me look a bit like Charles Manson. These were great times.

Still, I loved these talks with my Dad as they instilled a confidence in me that always lasted until the moment I came face to face with Jesse in the hallway.

When Christmas Break came about I was both relieved for the break from school and also despondent at my lack of Jesse time. I’m sure I whined about this a fair bit in the way that 14 year old girls always whine. But at least there were plenty of distractions over the holidays.

After the first week my whining died down a bit and on Boxing Day I went to my best friend’s annual Boxing Day Party which was delightful and distracting and at the end of the day my Dad came and picked me up.

He was in a jolly mood and suggested we drive around to look at the Christmas Lights in the area and I agreed excitedly, always happy to have Daddy-Daughter time.

I chatted away to my Dad about the party, completely self-absorbed and lost so much in my own head that I didn’t notice the way he intently looked at street names and actually drove in the opposite direction of some of the best light displays.

And then he stopped the car.

“Dad?” I asked curiously, mid-monologue.

“This is his house!” My Dad exclaimed excitedly.

Dread settled deep in my belly as I realized my colossal mistake. I had told Dad Jesse’s last name which he had then looked up in the phonebook.

“Oh God.” I slunk deeply into the seat and begged my Dad to drive away before anyone saw us. It was one thing to stare creepily at someone in school, but to park outside their house? Now that was a weird reputation I would never recover from.

“No, no, I’ve got it all worked out.” My Dad then proceeded to explain his plan to me. I was to go and knock on the door, pretending complete surprise when Jesse opened it. I would tell him that we had been driving around looking at Christmas lights and I had to use the washroom and this was the first house we had stopped at. He would let me inside, believing the encounter to be fate, and we would live happily ever after with lots of babies.

You see, dear reader, I come by my crazy naturally.

I hissed at my Dad, literally hissed at him and after another minute of sitting parked outside my love’s house we drove off, my Dad calling me a wuss and me calling him nuts.

Still, I suppose my Dad gets points for trying.

For the sake of full disclosure: Jesse never did find out we parked outside his house, and we never did get together. Apparently it’s hard to date a girl who stammers every time she looks at you.

Motivation

There are all kinds of motivations for getting into shape. My motivation? I have a crush on a guy at my gym. It may not be the most noble of causes for exercise but it does the trick.

Nothing gets my plump posterior to the gym faster than a cute guy running on the treadmill in front of me. Is this inappropriate? Probably. Or, at least it would be if I actually checked out said gentleman. Instead I spend my time killing myself on the elliptical “feeling the burn” while I bob my head – and occasionally sing along to – “Sexy and I Know It” by LMFAO.

If I was any more awesome people’s hearts would break.