Dear British Television,

Why are you trying to kill me? Between the anxiety you induce by making me wait forever for a new series of a show and then the heart wrenching you compel when the show finally comes back, I’m convinced you want me dead. Maybe I’m being a little paranoid and this should only be addressed to the shows you send my television all the way across the pond and not all of British Television… and I guess I can exclude the comedies, although some of them have made me laugh so hard I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped breathing for a second, but still. It’s like you know what you’re doing to me and every other fan out there, and I can just picture some of you (ehm ehm Moffat) sitting in a dark room somewhere wringing your hands while you laugh evilly about what you’ll do to us next.

Waiting for new episodes of one of yours series is like being in a long distance relationship with someone who only cares enough to give you short teases of what is going on with them and sends you pictures that make you even more curious than you were before. It’s cruel cruel torture and you know it. That being said, please don’t stop. I live for those small bit of joy even if you could care less about the agony you put me through.

And it’s not just the waiting. Every show from Doctor Who, to Luther, to Sherlock, Being Human and Downton Abbey seems specifically designed to shatter my existence. Why do you make these characters who it is impossible not to become emotionally attached to and then make me worry for them so? I won’t even go into what the The Reichenbach Fall has done to my emotional well being. It’s just wrong. Why can none of your characters have a little bit of prolonged happiness without the entire world being pulled out from under them? Why British Television? Why?

Even worse, why do you parade out such a ridiculously handsome smorgasbord of men and then make their characters so incredibly attractive, flaws and all? Aiden Turner’s Mitchell was the first vampire I ever fell for and Dan Stevens portrayal of Mathew Crowely makes it impossible not to swoon, and while we’re talking about swooning Idris Elba’s troubled cop John Luther is one hunk of messed up goodness. To this day, I can barely talk about how much I mourn the loss of the sexiest nerd to ever exist, David Tennant, as the Tenth Doctor, but we can’t get into that or I may start crying instead of finishing this article. Not to mention that whoever came up with casting Benedict Cumberbatch, with his ethereal sharp features and the voice and the eyes and the height and the everything, as Sherlock should be both knighted and then shot for what he’s done to women everywhere.

Did you not know I would fall in love with every single one of them? No, you knew British Television and you did it anyway because you are clearly out to get me. You have turned me into a woman who would happily go to jail for polygamy… if it were possible to get a fictional character to fall in love with me and marry me. Who am I kidding? I would take the actors themselves in a heartbeat. I would even accept a one out of two deal on the falling and love and marriage as long as there was some sort of physical contact clause included. Of course, that will never happen either no matter how many nights I stay away praying to gods of the fandoms.

British Television, it’s like you were invented solely for the purpose of ripping my poor fangirl heart from my chest and then doing a happy dance while I lay on the ground in a puddle of my own tears begging for some more of the same. Our relationship is clearly unhealthy, with you wanting me dead and my high degree of compulsive obsession, but alas I fear it’s destined to continue until you succeed or another country starts putting out such compelling dramas.

Sincerely,

Ashley G

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