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Humans have a superstition about thirteen. In the twentieth century, there were tall buildings with elevators that had floor buttons that went from “twelve” to “fourteen”, skipping “thirteen” all together. As though the architects and contractors could make an entire floor of a building disappear simply by refusing to name it. As though a number could be ignored out of existence.
Such amusing things, humans.
Life has been good. Not specific, individual regenerations, but all of it --- the entirety of his life --- has been good. Mostly. A small patch of alien invasion here, an occasional evil megalomaniac there, a walloping great Time War right in the middle of it, but the road has been smooth enough. Then again, that's from his perspective. Some folk would say that everything he's touched has gone up in flames and turned to ash. Those folk don't believe in such a thing as a big, red reset button.
Living forever, barring accidents, means having an enormous amount of time to do an immeasurable amount of damage. The Time Lords understood that. So did he. The price of eternal life? To be taken outside of life, one way or another and over and over again, lest interference lead to life's destruction. The Time Lords accepted it. He had not. Which is how the fiction of thirteen comes to be staring him in the face. The Time Lords never interfered with others. They had no problem interfering with their own. Twelve times, the tribunal adjudged. A standard sentence for rebels. Thirteen bodies, no more. As though a number could be ruled into existence.
Such amusing things, Time Lords.
Eternal life. The Doctor doesn't need it. He knows where the big, red reset button is.