Only one person loves me.
The others? Oh, no. They just like to play pretend. Kicking my console, banging my doors, getting lost in my halls- I get no respect from his so-called "companions"! I wouldn't let a single one of them into my corridors if he didn't make me. He may have had a rare spurt of good taste choosing me as a partner, but some of the others were completely outlandish. I would have locked my doors to Miss Clara Oswald permanently if we hadn't had to save the Doctor. "Together," apparently. Of course, that's after she shook water all over me as if I'm some sort of welcome mat.
I really get no respect, even from the Doctor. I bring him somewhere he needs to go, and he yells at me. He installs stupid machinery and makes a mockery of my masterpiece. He pulls my levers too wildly, and, frankly, I'm not sure he really knows much about taking care of me. I prefer his friend River Song in that regard.
In the end, how would anyone describe me? They've all had a taste of my . . . humorous personality. But all the Doctor's companions would call me a machine. A fancy machine that brings them to places they couldn't go otherwise, yes, but a machine under the Doctor's whim. I'm always the underdog, the third wheel. Clara says the Doctor would pick me over them. But would he, really?
There's only one person I have left to turn to.
So please, when he comes for you, don't think of me as a machine.
Don't call me bigger on the inside.
I'm not just a TARDIS.
My dear, you can call me Sexy.