The Tenth Doctor was the Crown Prince of emo.
This was a man who has saved the lives of friends, family, cities, civilizations, planets, and once the existence of the universe. He owns a machine that lets him travel to almost anywhere in time and space, seeing sights and having adventures no one else can match. On top of that, he enjoyed a fulfilling if unconsummated romantic relationship with a woman 880 years his junior, as well as brief flings with the likes of Madame de Pompadour and Queen Elizabeth I.
But, we’re expected to believe that his life sucks, and that somehow he didn’t get properly rewarded for his efforts.
My point here, is not a lengthy rant about how David Tennant’s Doctor was written. He had moments of charm and brilliance, and I’d watch him before Colin Baker most any day. No, his last episode led me to look at my own regeneration. We all do it, you know; though for most of us, the process is far less dramatic. Still, I don’t look, act, or think much like I did when I was sixteen.
Oh, there’s continuity there: I have plenty of memories from that time, and some of my quirks and mannerisms from back then remain in my personality. I certainly look more like I did at the time than Christopher Eccleston looks like Jon Pertwee. But like the Doctor or the Master, I’m simultaneously the same person and not.
Honestly, I’m pleased with the majority of the changes in myself, though I sometimes with I still had my teenage body. (Perhaps a little less scrawny, though.) I prefer being more experienced with life, and perhaps having a touch more wisdom. Being older is the price I have to pay, and since the only other offered option is being six feet under, I’ll take it gladly. Someone should have pointed out to the Tenth Doctor that getting to live a life of daring adventure, plus not having to die when all the rest of us do, doesn’t suck as much as he insisted it did.