It was Saturday. Sweet wonderful Saturday. We had finally gotten a decent amount of snow and everything I had planned for the day was delayed and sub sequentially cancelled due to being unable to get in the building (long story). Either way, I now had to find some way of entertaining myself without getting into trouble. I really didn't want to try and start on that huge pile of homework so I got on the internet and started surfing. Eventually, I found my way to Netflix, but nothing really looked interesting. I scrolled through my recommendations and saw that Broadchurch was still there. It had been there for about a year or so now and I figured, might as well watch the first episode. I didn't have anything better to do that day. Yeah, basically long story short, I watched all of season one and started searching for season two. Another long story short, America ain't getting squat until March. MARCH!

*huff* I hate waiting. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. Its times like these when I really envy the Doctor. He can just hop a few years from now and catch up on all the books and TV and movies he wants too while the rest of us are stuck on the slow path.

…

Well, I guess I could always kidnap David Tennant and get what happens out of him. He's already filmed season 2…

And before you people start up on how kidnapping is bad and what-not, I tried to watch Gracepoint, but it's too much of a repeat too soon and my attention span is limited when it comes to repeats. But, you're probably wondering where this is going.

Am I right? Or am I left?

So basically, I watched Broadchurch all Saturday and went to sleep after realizing I wasn't getting much of a season 2 and I would have to give Gracepoint a month or two before I fell in love with it as well, I mean it is David Tennant. Now imagine my shock when I went to wake up, I did so with four legs instead of two and a salty breeze washing over me.

I'll give you a hint, I don't live near a beach.

I don't own Broadchurch.