I’m glad that Bilbo Baggins exists
Because in the book, the dude was pretty firmly middle aged when his crazy-ass adventure started
He was settled down in the house that belonged to his parents and had done precisely jack shit with his life
It gives me hope that maybe some nutcase wizard will eventually show up and be like yo
you’re a burglar now
don’t even care that you didn’t roll rogue homie we got dragons to slay and kingdoms to save
I want a Twelfth Doctor that is fully concious of the fact that he is being written by Moffat.
And it pisses him off.
"Oh, a woman. Let me guess, you fancy me? Am I sexy? Do you want to grind against me and call me a clever boy? You come near me and I will delete you from time. How? Who the fuck knows? It won’t be explained. You won’t be explained. You’ll just be gone. Gone to a sexy dimension.’
I want a female companion who is fully conscious of the fact that she is being written by Moffat.
"Oh, I suppose this is the part where I swoon now. Where I fall in love with you regardless of my previously-indicated preference towards women, or any other love interest I may have, because you’re so sexy and mysterious and distinguished and all of my character traits are just props in a male fantasy about manic pixie dream girls. I suppose this is the part where I get put into peril and scream and you have to save me, and then something horrifying and unexplained happens to me that makes me interesting and special, because an ordinary, boring shopgirl could never, ever be worth you taking on a wild adventure."
My mistrust is not, as one might expect, primarily a result of the violent acts done on my body, nor the vicious humiliations done to my dignity. It is, instead, born of the multitude of mundane betrayals that mark my every relationship with a man—the casual rape joke, the use of a female slur, the careless demonization of the feminine in everyday conversation, the accusations of overreaction, the eyerolling and exasperated sighs in response to polite requests to please not use misogynist epithets in my presence or to please use non-gendered language (“humankind”).
There are the jokes about women, about wives, about mothers, about raising daughters, about female bosses. They are told in my presence by men who are meant to care about me, just to get a rise out of me, as though I am meant to find funny a reminder of my second-class status. I am meant to ignore that this is a bullying tactic, that the men telling these jokes derive their amusement specifically from knowing they upset me, piss me off, hurt me. They tell them and I can laugh, and they can thus feel superior, or I can not laugh, and they can thus feel superior. Heads they win, tails I lose. I am used as a prop in an ongoing game of patriarchal posturing, and then I am meant to believe it is true when some of the men who enjoy this sport, in which I am their pawn, tell me, “I love you.” I love you, my daughter. I love you, my niece. I love you, my friend. I am meant to trust these words.
There are the occasions that men—intellectual men, clever men, engaged men—insist on playing devil’s advocate, desirous of a debate on some aspect of feminist theory or reproductive rights or some other subject generally filed under the heading: Women’s Issues. These intellectual, clever, engaged men want to endlessly probe my argument for weaknesses, want to wrestle over details, want to argue just for fun—and they wonder, these intellectual, clever, engaged men, why my voice keeps raising and why my face is flushed and why, after an hour of fighting my corner, hot tears burn the corners of my eyes. Why do you have to take this stuff so personally? ask the intellectual, clever, and engaged men, who have never considered that the content of the abstract exercise that’s so much fun for them is the stuff of my life.
you want a man with a strong jawline so you have a sturdy place to sit