The Diary of a FanGirl


Doctor Who World Tour NYC
(Spoiler free)

#DWWorldTour #doctorwho

I had an amazing day today, hanging out on 54th st with about 1400(??) Whovians. (A Whovian is a special Breed of loyal fans of the BBC longtime hit, Doctor Who.) For ten hours, we were standing, sitting, shifting and dancing in line, climbing the barricades, banging out the time lord drum beat on anything we could hit, singing the theme song, laughing, playing, quoting, trivia’ing, screaming and crying.

Now, you may be asking “ten hours?? WHY?!” With all of the exclamation points and question marks and, probably, about fourteen emojis…. “Why ten hours? Why Doctor Who? Why why why singing-dancing-drumming-etc-etc-and so-on?!” Well – and i promise to keep this short – Doctor Who is an adventure that has been on the air since 1963 (yes, before Star Trek), and it is the story of an outsider who disagreed with the laws of his species, stole a spaceship that travels through time and space, and ran away to explore the universes. (Whew. Told you: short.) (oh, wait, there’s more)

“This is one corner of one country, in one continent, on one planet that’s a corner of a galaxy, that’s a corner of a universe, that is forever shrinking and creating and destroying, and never remaining the same for a single millisecond. And there is so much–so much to see. Because it goes fast. I’m not running away. I’m running to them. Before they flare and fade forever” (The Doctor, s7e3 “The Power of Three”).

It just so happens that this man — this alien — this Time Lord is a quirky, goofy, maladjusted, socially inept, absolutely brilliant Leader-Genius-Hero who stumbles upon distress and imminent doom everywhere he goes, and, thus, despite his eternal vacation intentions, he ends up traveling around and saving worlds, which, frankly, is fitting because he is called The Doctor.

He, like so many of our favorite and most idolized heroes, is plagued with tragedy, steeped in regret and doubt, and trying his absolute damnedest to live up to the promise he made to himself, the promise that lies in his name, and he doesn’t always succeed.

“When you began all those years ago, sailing off to see the universe, did you ever think you’d become this? The man who can turn an army around at the mention of his name. ‘Doctor’: the word for healer and wiseman throughout the universe. We get that word from you, you know. But if you carry on the way you are, what might that word become? To the people of the Gamma Forests, the word ‘Doctor’ means Mighty Warrior’. How far you’ve come. And now they’ve taken a child – the child of your best friends – and they’re going to turn her into a weapon just to bring you down. And all of this, my love, in fear of you” (Doctor Who, s6e7: “A Good Man Goes To War”).

Now, “why,” you ask? Because who wouldn’t find her personal hero in an adventurous, quirky genius who is resolute in his beliefs? He is a man who demands justice where it lacks, finds beauty where it may seem impossible, and stands tall and brave against adversity.

SO, after nearly twelve months of anticipation, the premiere episode of series 8 was screening at The Ziegfeld Theatre in Midtown Manhattan, hosted by Chris Hardwick (The Nerdist), and attended by the actors who play The Doctor and his human companion, and the show runner and head writer, Steven Moffat, himself. The genius behind the laptop. So, Whovians united on 54th St. and waited ten hours, hoping to catch a glimpse, and watch the Series Eight premiere episode, “Deep Breath.”

So: we dance. We sing. We recite whole monologues and reenact episodes. We drum the beat of the Time Lord’s hearts (yes: plural).

Then, after what seems like a eternity, an old fashioned taxi rolled up and Mr Capaldi, Ms Coleman, and Mr Steven Moffat emerged, and the already-palpable crowd absolutely erupted.

Being at the apex of such passionate enthusiasm is a rush of energy that overwhelms you in a wave, enveloping you completely, the way a blanket hugs during a Christmas movie, or a pillow comforts during a horror flick. It’s, well….it’s home.

And then we watched the episode.



Wholly and Completely Me


Sitting in this cafe, reading a book that’s giving me insight into Life After 30, while the radio argues with the literature, giving me a tour of the Best Hits From My Adolescence. With each song, I’m transported back to different – very distinct – eras if my life.

Maroon 5, and I’m 14, beautiful and naive, sneaking out the window of my second-story window, getting ready to jump to the lawn below and run down the street to meet my friends, all of whom were three years my senior. Smoking cigarettes, talking about high school parties, and whisking away on an adventure to the SF beach.

Blink 182, and I’m 11, lying about the explicitly of the lyrics, standing in line for their album, Take Off Your Pants and Jacket, singing the vulgar songs with pride, top of my lungs, with my friend Tara Covert – a wonderful friendship that ended terribly. Some house mix I can’t, for the life of me, recall the name of, and I’m 15, surrounded by cheerleaders, practicing our routine, cursing, panting, frustrated, and hurting, but in it together. Another alliance I never thought I’d find solace in. Nobody – NOBODY – who knew me growing up would ever have pegged ME as a cheerleader. Especially now that I say it was some of e best tImes of my life. And hardest, but what isn’t hard she. You’re surrounded by teenage girls?

What strikes me most about this is how sad it makes me. This music strongly evokes such happy memories, but it fills me with a deep-rooted sadness that echoes throughout the pits of my everything. It calls upon my tears and wrenches my heart, makes me ache with longing.

I long for the days when I had all the confidence and none of the cares. I was so sure of myself. I knew who I was, loved who I was, and damn you, if you didn’t. What changed?

The pressure on myself didn’t change. The pressure others put on me has changed. Before, everyone minded their own business. Now, everyone feels like its their place to tell me how I should act, dress, live, love, breathe… Which is funny to me because I have never been without purpose, drive, or focus. I have always known exactly where I wanted to be and how I wanted to get there, and if I ever needed help, I asked for it. So, I don’t understand why, suddenly it’s everyone’s business to butt in. I don’t understand why anyone thinks that I no longer have that, that I’ve lost it somewhere along the way. I’m too polite to tell everyone to butt out and leave some alone, and I find myself nodding, smiling emptily, saying “yes, of course, you’re right, I will.” When the truth is, “no, shut up, you know nothing, butt out, I’m fine.”

I’m scared, I’m lonely, I’m tired, I’m depressed, I’m anxious, I’m vulnerable. But I’m also 26 in a month. Working where I want to work, with whom I want to work. I eat well, I live with my cats, I’m curious, adventurous, and ambitious. I have 25 different dreams, and I’m pursuing all of the at once, and succeeding. I have friends who care about me; I even have non-friends who care about me. I have community, passion, and vision. So next time any of you, for a second, think that you need to weigh in your opinions about. Y life, take a step back first. Accept my gratitude, and kindly butt out.

I hold no sincere apologies for who I am,I never have and I absolutely never ever will. I love me. And if you don’t, to hell with you.



We put my grandmother in the ground today. Memom is what I called her. It was a sweet little ceremony, but I wish I’d done it alone.

I don’t know why I’m so private about emotions, but so feel like I’m cheating my Memom out of a really good conversation when I’m forced to be around people.

I wanted to sit next to the grave, leant head on her tombstone and tell her stories, like so used to. I used to write her long emails about my life and send her my ideas and stories; she would write me back and tell me what she thought about everything I’d said – sent from her iPad. I wanted to finish the New York Times Sunday crossword from yesterday and let her help me, and challenge her to a words with friends match. Pass ‘n’ play.

She died on December 29, 2013. Her funeral was January 2, 2014. That was eight months ago. I think about her every day, and I thought I was finally coming out the other side from the grief and guilt of losing her, and then we had this ceremony and I feel like it has all opened back up again.

It was sweet, though. When my cousin started a poem she brought, a dragon fly came over to smell the flowers. Zipped on over and hovered to listen to the poem.

Dragonflies were Memom’s spirit animal.

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