In Which Our Heroine Further Outs Her Geeky Tendencies

Okay, so remember not too long ago when I was going on and on about the stuff that I know some stuff about, and I had that little rage episode about halflings? Yeah, well, I mentioned that I had a thing for Riker, which led to a little not-too-vicious ribbing, which led to me inexplicably Googling ST:TNG and ending up on Wil Wheaton's personal blog.

Wesley Crusher was a universally defiled character; everyone I knew hated him. Except, um, me. I loved that he was a relentless know it all, I loved that he considered the adults around him sort of idiots, I loved that he was allowed to be petulant and whiny. I was 12 years old, and while I crushed on Riker's what-the-hell-ever-attracted-me-to-him-at-least-he-wasn't-a-robot and longed to be empathetic, curly-haired Troi, I identified with Wesley. He was a kid a little too smart for his own good, a little lonely (I can only remember two or maybe three instances on the show that he was shown with peers), impatient as all hell to grow up and get it over with already. I understood that. I never, however, stopped for a single moment to consider Wil Wheaton, the actor who portrayed him. Turns out that me and Wil would totally be besties if 1) I lived in Southern California 2) I had a valid reason to be in his life, and 3) he didn't spend time hating on Huey Lewis fans.

I like him and his writing so much, in fact, that I have spent a lot of time - valuable time that I could have spent catching up on the archives of the 639,574 webcomics I am currently obsessed with - catching up on the archives of his blog. I think even if I didn't know that Ensign Wesley Crusher, for whom I had such an affinity, was writing, I would have spent time absorbing it, because he's funny and erudite and also a huge geek. He makes jokes about +3 gauntlets of gripping and failing a save vs. flirting, talks about his reverence for the captain's chair on set, and plays Rock Band with his stepsons. I want to have him fix tequila chicken tacos and throw on Pablo Honey and we can sit in the backyard with beer and talk about how weird it is that everybody hates a paladin, but every single one we've ever encountered was level 27 or something. I think it'd be neat.

I don't know if I will recover from the opprobrium I am inviting by saying this, but: mmmm, Wesley...