But this past week’s episode, “Listen,” is a standout, not just of the season but of the rebooted series as a whole. It’s one of the most frightening episodes I’ve seen, up there with “Midnight,” “Hide,” “The Waters of Mars,” and, of course, “Blink.” The scariest Doctor Who episodes prey on very primal fears - things that move when you can’t see them, water that will kill you if you touch it (let alone drink it), loss of control over your voice and your movements, and now, of course, what it is that lives in the darkness under the bed.



Steven Moffat has always been an expert at creating monsters that are simultaneously devastatingly ordinary and horrifying - Weeping Angels, anyone? - and the fact that there are perfectly reasonable explanations for every instance of the mysterious creature(s) in “Listen” just makes the other option (that there’s always something hovering just at the edge of your vision, but you can never see it) all the more viscerally terrifying. What’s under the blanket in Rupert’s room in the orphanage? Is it really just a friend playing a trick on him? The image of the out-of-focus figure standing just behind Clara, Rupert, and the Doctor will stay with me for a long time - especially when I’m home alone at night.

The Essential Doctor Who Midseason Check-in: Parsing Peter Capaldi

I wrote about how much I like the new season of Doctor Who over at Word + Film!

emchughes

emchughes:

I never know what to say on this anniversary because nothing I write ever feels correct and I don’t want to add to the flood of noise, but not saying anything doesn’t feel right either. My experience is not so different from so many others. Worse than some, yes, but I was so much luckier than so many other people.

The reality is that I don’t actually remember a lot of the day. Large patches of it are just gone. I’ve reconstructed what bits and pieces I can from outside information but a lot of my actual memory is just impressions of emotions.

I was fourteen, and I had just started high school in Rochester, and at the end of first period English class the principal came on over the loudspeaker to tell us that a plane had hit the World Trade Center in New York City. It would have been before the second plane hit, I think, judging by what I remember of my high school’s daily schedule. The immediate student reaction was not knowing what to make of it, and people shuffled off to their next class. I remember the poorly disguised look of worry on my teacher’s face when I told her that my father lived in New York and could I please go to the office and call him.

I’m sure I had a cell phone - one of those big clunky indestructible Nokias with the antenna you had to pull up by hand - but I can’t remember why I didn’t use it.

Read More

Wrote this last year. It’s probably all I’ll ever write about it. Too much energy.

velocipedestrienne
But the more I made new friends, the clearer it was to me that no one is ever really done making new friends, and very few people are averse to it. I used to assume that people ALREADY HAD THEIR FRIENDS, but that’s almost never the case. Even when people seem to be busy and social, they’re often very open to getting to know someone new.

Ask Polly: How do I make friends in my late 20s? // The Cut

The first AP over at NYMag’s The Cut, and she absolutely knocked it out. (via velocipedestrienne)

Guys, I know I already posted about today’s other Ask Polly column, but this one hits me in an entirely different place. This was me, two years ago, depressed and lonely and wondering how the fuck you make friends in New York City after college. And you know what? I did it. I did it well. For me the answer was: slowly, through work, through the internet (hi Tumblr beauties, you know who you are), and by being my real, weird self and finding people whose real, weird selves were on the same wavelength. And it’s so true - no one ever has *too many* friends. If they’re truly good friends, your life just opens up to make room. I love you, you fuckin’ weirdos.

turnme-ontophantoms
lovebug:

Rest in peace.

Mork and Mindy reruns in my pjs with my mom. Mrs. Doubtfire, which made me laugh, but also gave me such strange feelings about my parents’ divorce. Aladdin, one of the first movies I remember seeing. Hook, which is a great movie and if you don’t like it I question your ability to feel joy.
Good Morning Vietnam, which I was definitely too young to watch. Jumanji, age 8, with my dad, in the second-run theater in our town in Massachusetts, and then again, age 24, with my little brother, who was seeing it for the first time. Fern Gully! Motherfucking Fern Gully, man, shown to me by my libdem parents and responsible for turning me into a tiny hippie. The Birdcage - oh, The Birdcage - one of my top ten favorite movies of all time. 
Walking out of the theater after seeing Insomnia with my dad, listening to the group of middle-aged people in front of us laughing maniacally and repeating the phrase “Skippy’s only got one eye!” which is a phrase I love but do not, to this day, even pretend to understand. Freshman year of college in my cinderblock dorm room, with alishalevin, listening to Live On Broadway over and over and over and clutching our sides when we were out of breath from laughing. Matt talking me down from a panic attack over the phone while I was on the downtown M15 by repeating “It’s naht yah fault” over and over. 
Even the terrible movies - AI and Bicentennial Man and Flubber and What Dreams May Come and Patch Adams and Death to Smoochy - god, I saw them all. Sometimes you don’t realize what a constant companion someone you’ve never met has become until they’re gone.
Depression is a motherfucker. Everyone is talking about it tonight and I hope it leads to a better, more open, more tolerant conversation about mental illness. There are times, even now, even in my neurotic, open-minded, New York, therapy-embracing social circle, that I feel like I’ll be judged if I talk about my own situation. But I’ve found that once you mention therapy or antidepressants or panic attacks in passing to the people close to you, these soft little moth-like empathy antennae go up, and gently, slowly, you find each other, and you find a safe place to talk about it, and you recognize the people you can call on the bad days - hey, you’ve been there too. I’m not going to call any of you out by name here, but you all know who you are.
That first step is the hardest fucking thing, though. The hardest fucking thing. Days and weeks of existing in a fog before I could make that phone call. Identify the person your depression-brain tells you will hate you the least for reaching out to them [they won’t hate you, not even a little, or be disappointed or put out or inconvenienced - they will love you all the more for asking for help when you need it - but your brain will tell you otherwise]. If you need it to be me, I am always here. If you need it to be a stranger, there are so many people who will help you. Just. Make the first step. I promise it’s worth it.

lovebug:

Rest in peace.

Mork and Mindy reruns in my pjs with my mom. Mrs. Doubtfire, which made me laugh, but also gave me such strange feelings about my parents’ divorce. Aladdin, one of the first movies I remember seeing. Hook, which is a great movie and if you don’t like it I question your ability to feel joy.

Good Morning Vietnam, which I was definitely too young to watch. Jumanji, age 8, with my dad, in the second-run theater in our town in Massachusetts, and then again, age 24, with my little brother, who was seeing it for the first time. Fern Gully! Motherfucking Fern Gully, man, shown to me by my libdem parents and responsible for turning me into a tiny hippie. The Birdcage - oh, The Birdcage - one of my top ten favorite movies of all time. 

Walking out of the theater after seeing Insomnia with my dad, listening to the group of middle-aged people in front of us laughing maniacally and repeating the phrase “Skippy’s only got one eye!” which is a phrase I love but do not, to this day, even pretend to understand. Freshman year of college in my cinderblock dorm room, with alishalevin, listening to Live On Broadway over and over and over and clutching our sides when we were out of breath from laughing. Matt talking me down from a panic attack over the phone while I was on the downtown M15 by repeating “It’s naht yah fault” over and over. 

Even the terrible movies - AI and Bicentennial Man and Flubber and What Dreams May Come and Patch Adams and Death to Smoochy - god, I saw them all. Sometimes you don’t realize what a constant companion someone you’ve never met has become until they’re gone.

Depression is a motherfucker. Everyone is talking about it tonight and I hope it leads to a better, more open, more tolerant conversation about mental illness. There are times, even now, even in my neurotic, open-minded, New York, therapy-embracing social circle, that I feel like I’ll be judged if I talk about my own situation. But I’ve found that once you mention therapy or antidepressants or panic attacks in passing to the people close to you, these soft little moth-like empathy antennae go up, and gently, slowly, you find each other, and you find a safe place to talk about it, and you recognize the people you can call on the bad days - hey, you’ve been there too. I’m not going to call any of you out by name here, but you all know who you are.

That first step is the hardest fucking thing, though. The hardest fucking thing. Days and weeks of existing in a fog before I could make that phone call. Identify the person your depression-brain tells you will hate you the least for reaching out to them [they won’t hate you, not even a little, or be disappointed or put out or inconvenienced - they will love you all the more for asking for help when you need it - but your brain will tell you otherwise]. If you need it to be me, I am always here. If you need it to be a stranger, there are so many people who will help you. Just. Make the first step. I promise it’s worth it.

In 20 days I will step off a plane in Hilo, Hawaii, and for the subsequent 7 days I will never not have in my hand either a) a drink with a little umbrella in it, b) a book, c) a snorkeling mask, or d) a tube of sunscreen. I will wear fabulous sunglasses and long flowy dresses and swim with dolphins and float by the swim-up bar.

New York, you need to get your head right while I’m gone and be fully into spring when I come back. I want daffodils and hyacinths and birds and sunny walks to brunch, or so help me we will have a problem.