What the HELL, Deanna Troi? There’s so much I can’t get past to get to you.
Being ship’s counselor also makes you a lieutenant commander? Or is it the other way around? Or it is both or is it neither – and neither and both – because it really doesn’t matter if it makes any sense at all?
Why are you on the bridge again? To tell if hostile beings are being hostile. To see if liars are truly lying. To dazzle up the right side of the screen.
I feel like there should be a Lifetime filter specifically on you every time you are there.
And only you.
Shh! I’m sorry. Please stop crying. You do that, you know, a lot. A LOT.
Not that you don’t have a lot to cry about, mind.
How many times did aliens take control of your mind/body during fits of poor writing and bad allegory? At least twice that I know of on TNG and once by Mini Me Picard.
That guy. That guy had problems.
Everybody likes your mom better than you. You’re in the background until she leaves again.
Deanna Troi, you were almost Tashsa Yar, but the two of you ended up switching places. She went on to deliver some impressive progeny (herself!), and you gave birth to an ungrateful brat who floated off into space.
All this and more. Maybe that’s why you have so many outfits. Maybe that’s why you give bad advice to desperate people (really bad). Is that why you’re so crazy into chocolate?
I mean, you try to do your own thing, try not to get in the way, pitch in where you can and you still can’t make a proper go at it.
You step onto the bridge (like always) and the new guy in charge tells you to change your damn shirt (inappropriate).
You try to help out a friend and he turns you into a cake and eats you.
Cellular peptide cake.
You’re just chillin’ in the tub and some jacked-up asshole comes along and bites you in the fucking neck.
Cheap thrills. Missed opportunities. Exhausted premises.
That would do it.
I would lose it, Deanna Troi. I would do whatever, too, if I had to endure all that.
God bless you, Deanna Troi!