Dearest darlingest future me,

‘Ello! How are you? Err, how is me? How will me be? Wait, don’t answer that: spoilers. Anywayyy, right now I’m a bit bored in the TARDIS. Must be Sunday. So, I thought I’d try out the ‘ol advanced poetry degree (remember, the one we earned during our artsy-fartsy phase? What with the cat pin and the outrageous jacket? Oh gosh, don’t tell me that future me is wearing that again. Or worse, a flamboyant hat.) Welllll, on to the poetry:

Rose isn’t dead.
The TARDIS is blue.
Bananas are sweet.
Raxacoricofallapatorius..

Oh Captain! My Captain Jack! Our fearful TARDIS trip is done.
Your eyes have explored every female’s rack, the man meat you sought was won.

Two timelines diverged in an open vortex, and I-
I took the one more traveled by,
so that I didn’t accidentally destroy all of Time, Space and reality itself.

To be, or not to be - Wellllllll, that is a really pretentious question, as
‘ol Willy thought himself.
Whether ‘tis Donna Nobler in the mind to suffer a two-way meta-crisis…

Do I like green eggs and ham?
I do not like them, Tenth Doctor I am.
Do you like green eggs?
I don’t know. Maybe my Eleventh self likes spam or jam or clams or grahams or rack of lamb. Or even taking a physical exam while eating canned yams with someone named Jam and scoring a grand slam. Dammmmn.
I do not know about him yet, Tenth Doctor I am.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Nahh, in most atmospheres, I prefer spring, thank you. Not too cold, not too hot, and all you need is a light jacket.

This poetry thing isn’t working out so brilliantly, is it? I suppose I’ll try another day. Stay clever, self!

Does it need saying?,
*Insert endless squiggly crop circles that I can’t quite write out with this measly Earth-made feather pen here*

Is most likely the most amazing DW piece of fanfiction I’ve ever read.

flapperorslapper:

Doctor Who rewritten - The Doctor visits Wilfred Mott while the Ponds are on their honeymoon

Wilfred: Can I help you, son?
Doctor: Yes, hi. ‘Ello, there. I’m Jo - uh, Jackson Lake.
Wilfred: Oh, sorry, Mr. Lake. My family and I aren’t interesting in buying anything.
Doctor: No, I’m not here to -
Wilfred: Oh no, I see what this is about. Heard about my family’s lottery win, eh? I suppose you’re one of them drug addicts then, hoping we’ll help fund you. Well, here’s some helpful advice - stay off that snorting, smoking, injecting - whatever the latest thing is these days. Living in a fantasy, dream world won’t help you in the long run, you can trust me on that. Though I’ve never seen one of you in such fancy dress before…
Doctor: Actually, I’m just wondering how your family’s doing. I’m conducting a…survey. Psychological. For school. See *flashes psychic paper* certified university student.
Wilfred: We’re fine, thanks. Jus’ me and my daughter in here.
Doctor: Oh. And grandkids, what about grandkids? A granddaughter, perhaps?
Wilfred: Yeah, I’ve got one of those. Why, you’re not also hoping for a date are you? No offense, chap, but you don’t really look like my Donna’s type - too young.
Doctor: Right, of course, yes. Not the hair nor the bow tie; It’s my age that would turn off Donna Noble.
Wilfred: Besides, she’s married. Happily. Got a daughter of her own, too.
Doctor: A daughter? Wonderful! I’m sure she’s a great mum! Sounds like a lucky little family. Well, thank you for your time, Wilfred Mott. Maybe I’ll see you again…when I have, erm, another survey assignment.
Wilfred: Right, bye. Have a nice — wait! How’d ya know my name?! And Donna’s last?
Doctor: Ah. Yes. That. I’m quite smart, me. Working on my PhD in medicine. Who knows, maybe someday I’ll even be your doctor.