Typically narcissistic blogging.

Dear Battlestar Galactica

Dear Battlestar Galactica,

I guess the first thing I should say is that I frakkin’ miss you. I miss you and I want you back. I know you had to end things, and I can forgive you for that, and even the cheap shot you threw at me as you left. But I miss you, and I just can’t go on like this.

I can’t keep jumping into these rebound relationships. They aren’t satisfying, they aren’t healthy. Caprica lasted the longest, but I think Caprica and I both know that I’m just looking for you in very virtual corner, in every proto-cylon. I’m looking for Starbuck, Adama, and Tigh. I am looking for real drama, morally questionable presidents, hot blond hallucinations, inexplicable obsessions with “All Along the Watchtower.” No amount of Eric Stoltz can really match all of that–and ultimately, Caprica knows it, even if that is a fact it prefers not to admit.

I feel so vulnerable writing this to you. But I just can’t help it. BSG, come back to me. I love you.

Sincerely,

Whiskeypants

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