I really am becoming quite concerned about Richey. Although he has succeeded in giving up all but two of the substances to which he was previously addicted, and now weighs well over seven stone, I'm just not sure he's happy. I have become quite accustomed to the appellation "bourgeois cunt", and my first aid skills are improving rapidly, but saving
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Oh dear. Why does this always happen?
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Rather a lot has happened and I do seem rather absent-minded on this regeneration. Absent-minded, tweedy and overly fond of books.
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Just please say you haven't shagged any of my companions. Especially Tegan.
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Turlough. God no.
Nyssa. Too young.
Adric. Not even dignifying *that* one with a response.
Tegan. I wouldn't do that to a vulnerable young woman who was in love with another of my selves, because that's very, very wrong.
Kam. Well, don't say you haven't wondered. The endless possibilities...
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Wait a minute... (Checks my figures with a calculator) That's only 44.5 kg! (98 lbs for the Americans) Which species is Richey, anyway?
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*sighs in avuncular concerned fashion*
At least, he is the burned-out remains of a human, shattered by fame and glamour.
*sighs again*
I can only do my poor best, and hope.
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