Status: As Tennant would say; Allons-y!
Doc & Jean
Prologue
There's an irreplaceable thrill that comes with leaving secret eggs in articles. Of course, I don't mean literal eggs that come out of a chicken, but words or phrases that are completely out of place from the context of the article's topic. For example, leaving the death counter for the Holocaust victims in the middle of a Selena Gomez interview or a short sentence that says "they made me do this" when reviewing the latest fashion hiccups during the Grammy's. It's a certain type of thrill I cherish deeply.
The only reason I bother to bring this up now is to give you an idea of how sad my life has become. I've resorted to leaving inside (and frankly unfunny) jokes in tween magazines just to keep myself excited and a little bit content in an otherwise disappointing life. I, Jean Warner, am a sad person. And I don't mean in that sappy, mental disorder way where my brain is experiencing a chemical imbalance or something. It's just that I am a very sad, pathetic person. You'd see me walking down the street, point, and whisper to your daughter, "See Cindy, that's what happens when you don't follow your dreams."
Oh yes, I am the damn personification of what happens when you don't follow your dreams. A depressing journalist that writes for Tiger Beat! tween magazine and interviews shallow human beings about their upcoming sell-out album. Yup, that's me!
The only thing that managed to break my god-awful routine of waking up, hating everything, and going back to sleep was a very discreet and very blue phone box that landed outside my apartment complex. And holy crap, am I glad it did.
. . .
All my life I stay here waiting every new year, always making me feel as though there's nothing up there but one day you came out of nowhere...
I slapped the snooze button in that cliche way all stories begin (including this one, I guess). My hair resembled a beehive and my eyes were too tired to wake up along with the rest of me. I turned until I was sprawled on my back, keep my eyelids shut, and taking a moment to realize I'd have to go through the motions of another day. At the sudden comprehension of this, I groaned loudly and kicked my feet like I used to do back when I attended school.
Old habits never die, especially when everything else stays the same.
1985 was a good year. The sky broke apart and you appeared. Dropped from the heavens, they call me a dream--
I tugged on the alarm until the cord ripped out of the electric socket, finally giving me the peace I deserved. I knew I should have listened when they warned me about setting my favorite song as my alarm--I've slowly adapted a passionate hatred for Passion Pit. Nevertheless, I sat up, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and yawned out with a stretch.
"Crap, I broke it," I murmured as I inspected the dismantled cord. I guess I pulled too hard. I'd have to throw it away with the other alarm clocks I've vandalized throughout my years of being forcibly woken up. Oh well; another one bites the dust.
I stood up, cringed at the coldness of the wooden floor beneath my bare feet, and tip-toed toward the window. I pulled back the blinds, letting the Los Angeles sun invade my room. I squinted in the face of Vitamin D, not understanding how something that's supposed to be good for me could cause me so much pain. In comparison to native Californians, I'm a native vampire. I just can't seem to enjoy the "sick waves" and "raw sun" as much as my neighbors do. Must be my New York roots.
Nevertheless, I got ready for the day.
Un-creative outfit? Check.
Lazy hairdo? Check.
Low-expectations makeup? Check.
Extremely long and unnecessary description of my morning routine? Check!
I was ready. Er, well, as ready as I thought I needed to be. Because I will tell you, I was not, under any circumstances, ready for what happened next.
After chomping down on burnt toast and drinking half a glass of OJ, I grabbed my bag and shoes and walked out the door. I live in an apartment complex, a very mediocre but highly affordable place. The neighbors were sub-par, but so was the rest of California so what difference does it make? I took the elevator down, only to realize it was broken and quietly curse the building's janitor as I took the stairs.
It wasn't an unreasonably amount of steps, but I was not in shape and lacked all athletic ability, so I was winded fairly quickly. Finally, I made it to the bottom of the steps and trudged out the door. I was welcomed by the smell of freshly cut grass and dog hair. The sun battered on my shoulders and violated my eyes, to which I promptly cringed at. Even with my prescription glasses that were meant to protect me from the sun, I still couldn't stand it. With my head hung low, I continued toward my job--approximately four blocks away.
As I passed the apartment complex, however, something caught the corner of my eye. I immediately stopped in my tracks, walked a couple spaces back, and craned my neck to look toward my left. There, without any warning, was a seven foot tall, deep blue structure with the words "POLICE BOX" clearly stamped on the front.
Well this is weird...
The only reason I bother to bring this up now is to give you an idea of how sad my life has become. I've resorted to leaving inside (and frankly unfunny) jokes in tween magazines just to keep myself excited and a little bit content in an otherwise disappointing life. I, Jean Warner, am a sad person. And I don't mean in that sappy, mental disorder way where my brain is experiencing a chemical imbalance or something. It's just that I am a very sad, pathetic person. You'd see me walking down the street, point, and whisper to your daughter, "See Cindy, that's what happens when you don't follow your dreams."
Oh yes, I am the damn personification of what happens when you don't follow your dreams. A depressing journalist that writes for Tiger Beat! tween magazine and interviews shallow human beings about their upcoming sell-out album. Yup, that's me!
The only thing that managed to break my god-awful routine of waking up, hating everything, and going back to sleep was a very discreet and very blue phone box that landed outside my apartment complex. And holy crap, am I glad it did.
. . .
All my life I stay here waiting every new year, always making me feel as though there's nothing up there but one day you came out of nowhere...
I slapped the snooze button in that cliche way all stories begin (including this one, I guess). My hair resembled a beehive and my eyes were too tired to wake up along with the rest of me. I turned until I was sprawled on my back, keep my eyelids shut, and taking a moment to realize I'd have to go through the motions of another day. At the sudden comprehension of this, I groaned loudly and kicked my feet like I used to do back when I attended school.
Old habits never die, especially when everything else stays the same.
1985 was a good year. The sky broke apart and you appeared. Dropped from the heavens, they call me a dream--
I tugged on the alarm until the cord ripped out of the electric socket, finally giving me the peace I deserved. I knew I should have listened when they warned me about setting my favorite song as my alarm--I've slowly adapted a passionate hatred for Passion Pit. Nevertheless, I sat up, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and yawned out with a stretch.
"Crap, I broke it," I murmured as I inspected the dismantled cord. I guess I pulled too hard. I'd have to throw it away with the other alarm clocks I've vandalized throughout my years of being forcibly woken up. Oh well; another one bites the dust.
I stood up, cringed at the coldness of the wooden floor beneath my bare feet, and tip-toed toward the window. I pulled back the blinds, letting the Los Angeles sun invade my room. I squinted in the face of Vitamin D, not understanding how something that's supposed to be good for me could cause me so much pain. In comparison to native Californians, I'm a native vampire. I just can't seem to enjoy the "sick waves" and "raw sun" as much as my neighbors do. Must be my New York roots.
Nevertheless, I got ready for the day.
Un-creative outfit? Check.
Lazy hairdo? Check.
Low-expectations makeup? Check.
Extremely long and unnecessary description of my morning routine? Check!
I was ready. Er, well, as ready as I thought I needed to be. Because I will tell you, I was not, under any circumstances, ready for what happened next.
After chomping down on burnt toast and drinking half a glass of OJ, I grabbed my bag and shoes and walked out the door. I live in an apartment complex, a very mediocre but highly affordable place. The neighbors were sub-par, but so was the rest of California so what difference does it make? I took the elevator down, only to realize it was broken and quietly curse the building's janitor as I took the stairs.
It wasn't an unreasonably amount of steps, but I was not in shape and lacked all athletic ability, so I was winded fairly quickly. Finally, I made it to the bottom of the steps and trudged out the door. I was welcomed by the smell of freshly cut grass and dog hair. The sun battered on my shoulders and violated my eyes, to which I promptly cringed at. Even with my prescription glasses that were meant to protect me from the sun, I still couldn't stand it. With my head hung low, I continued toward my job--approximately four blocks away.
As I passed the apartment complex, however, something caught the corner of my eye. I immediately stopped in my tracks, walked a couple spaces back, and craned my neck to look toward my left. There, without any warning, was a seven foot tall, deep blue structure with the words "POLICE BOX" clearly stamped on the front.
Well this is weird...
♠ ♠ ♠
So, this is my outlandish attempt at my first Doctor Who fanfiction. It's been so long since I "finished" the show and I've always had ideas for companions, adventures, and plot lines that I never decided to post. One of them was to have an American-based plot line with an American companion that helps the Doctor deal with American conspiracy theories and the infamous American government.Have I mentioned I'm American?
Either way, I'd appreciate feedback!