Now that I’ve regained my senses and stopped bawling after watching The Angels Take Manhattan, I remember how I cried like there was no tomorrow earlier when the episode ended, yelling things that sound really silly now, in denial, trying to find loopholes, cursing Moffat, going incomprehensible again and again, and I still conclude that there is no shame.
I’d react the same way if I had to do it over.
And as I’m writing this long paragraph - I don’t care at this point if my grammar or sentence structures are correct - I’m tearing up again.
Rory didn’t even get to say goodbye to his dad. Who’s going to tell Brian?!
My fiance who I think was confused - whether to laugh at me or join me in my depressed crying state - kept saying that Amy and Rory lived a full and happy life. BUT I DON’T CARE. They weren’t supposed to die! Not there! Not now!
He said: Everyone dies.
BUT NOT AMY AND RORY. NOT THEM!
The Doctor was right. Endings should be hated.
