2013 - So Far, So Good

If one were to summarize my longterm philosophical outlook in a single scene from Doctor Who - and, let's be honest, why the hell wouldn't you? - it would be this particular exchange...


DOCTOR: Why do you always assume the worst?

ROMANA: Because it usually happens.

DOCTOR: Empirical poppycock. Where's your joy in life? Where's your optimism?

ROMANA: It opted out.
 
K9: Optimism: belief that everything will work out well; irrational bordering on insane.
 
DOCTOR: Oh do shut up, K9. Listen, Romana. Whenever you go into a new situation you must always believe the best until you find out exactly what the situation's all about, then believe the worst.
 
ROMANA: Ah, but what happens if it turns out not to be the worst after all?
 
DOCTOR: Don't be ridiculous, it always is. Isn't it, K9?
 
K9: ...master?

It could be a scene from YOA, it sums up my anxious and pessimistic worldview. I was thoroughly disappointed when the Earth was not abolished from existence last year. Stupid fucking Mayans - they can predict a volcano in Mexico and simultaneous UFO concert over six thousand years before it happens. I was expecting an earthquake at least! But no, blessed oblivion has been deprived and things are on the up.

Suspicious, isn't it?

Since the turn of the year, mine enemies hath been struck down. Mrs. [Ky]Ron(ald) Mal[l]et(t) has acted like the proverbial Amy's Crack and sucked up every last blog, archive, bitchfest and indeed anything left her lubby has ejaculated across the interweb. You'll be hardpressed to find a single mention of him outside this blog, and those you can find are very insulting. The entire dwiki page which Master Knoppler used to insult me is gone! Fancy that! Is it Christmas again, mummy?

Sparacus too has crashed and burned. Having fled GallifreyBase in a huff to create his own forum he now has returned and lurks in silence, too proud to announce his presence. Unsurprisingly, Ye Olde Chathame Gange have buggered off without the Emperor to inspire them - and they haven't gone to Outpost Sparacus. The place is now four levels below "ghost town" and only the S man himself has posted there in weeks. Tragically, most of these posts fit into three categories

a) reposting his Chatham stories
b) pathetically begging for someone else to post there
c) trolling threads to such a ridiculous degree that several impartial witnesses compare it to the Joker trying to get Batman's attention in The Dark Knight, clearly trying to draw me of all people back for a punch-up (and that isn't any arrogance on my part, the independent consensus agrees he's trying to provoke me into posting)

Even his groupies like LBC and MLock have abandoned him, while SmokingJacket and JonPertweefan never turned up in the first place. Bitter experience tells me not to declare the Chathamverse and Sparacius dead, but there's no denying it's in critical trauma and borderline suicide watch. Have things ever been this good?

The deranged Waterloo Road is being repeated on a daily basis as well, allowing me at last to see the episodes I missed - like the psychopathic drug-dealers vs. the book-burning bible-bashing Americans who slaughtered half the supporting cast in a B7-esque massacre of pen-knives, drug overdoses and people dressed as giant carrots. Suffice it to say, the later episodes with the ex-call girl for a Principal fighting Osama Bin Laden for anti-autism medication as the school is repeatedly demolished are a pale imitation of how crazy the show used to be. Only Double the Fist has ever achieved a live action soap opera of such brain-shattering insanity - and even they would balk at getting Neil Morrisy to beat up the world's greatest terrorist and calling him "Nob the Builder!"

...

Sorry, that show is such an endearing mindfuck!

And then I've managed to pass a performance review at my new job. I've achieved such a thing before, but only due to being the only employee who hadn't quick before they qualified for a review in the first place. Yes, I seem to be in a workplace where I am respected and trusted and held in reasonable esteem. Seriously, surely they're all skull-faced aliens luring me into a false sense of security. Right?

Then I return home and what do I find? A copy of Outside In, a published compendium of classic Who reviews with my treatise on Frontios pride of place, just three stories after Matt Smith's diatribe on The King's Demons. No, not that Matt Smith, but I can pretend. There's also a rehashed article by Alan Stevens, showing you what awesome company I have kept, while Carribbeaannn Bbbblllluuueee reaches episode five on the interweb. OK, it's taken three years and nearly (literally) killed me, but that's good news in anyone's language.

Alas, my B7 story was declined - but given how ruthless BF were, even discarding entries from fans on their deathbeds, I guess I can't complain. Typically, I know two of the folk who WERE accepted, and alas they're both too damn talented to complain. Oh, if only I could write short stories about Roj Blake being gay or Sarah Jane Smith getting gynaecological exams from Cyber-slaves (heh,heh, you think I joke about that, huh?), I could have been on the writing panel! DAMN YOU, GAZPACHO SOUP! DAMN YOU!!!!!

Quite frankly, this run of good luck is very unnerving. The last time my felicitis was this populi was 1998 - in a single day I won a sci-fi mag competition (gaining the E-Space box set as a prize), my cat had kittens, I got a metric shitload of DWMs and Classic Comics, and it was the day of the Newtown Festival which, in those days, was cooler than Christmas and Anzac Day combine-ed. And the next day I slipped over, cracked my leg, was mercilessly bullied, flunked exams and then contracted a disease then unknown to human science which then poisoned the water supplies of NSW.

So. Yeah. I'm kind of expecting bad shit to occur any minute.

Especially as tomorrow I encounter my endocrinologist who's general attitude upon seeing me is to roll her eyes and spit, "Why aren't you dead yet, you hopeless flabby freak? How dare you not expire when it's so pathetically obvious you're doomed! You couldn't lose weight if your life depended on it - which it does! HAH! Oh, God, why are you still alive you long-haired bastard?"

And that's on a good day!

So yeah, waiting for the other foot to drop, I inform the Hashish Addict that he should see The Doctor's Wife since the same author is writing a story this year called The Last Cyberman - and they've all been redesigned and everything! Woo-hoo!

...

Oh yeah, the crapola's going to hit the fan any minute, I bet...