This long weekend, which was meant to be all about catching up on both homework and friendships, as in working on annotated bibliographies and drinking cheap beer on screen porches, has unsurprisingly turned into a spree of marathon television watching with my sister in the interest of indoctrinating her to the world of Sherlock, because, as it turns out, I don’t keep the company of adequately geeky people, and therefore have been seriously lacking in the “people interested in regularly screaming about Benedict Cumberbatch’s cheekbones” department. A lacking I have dully corrected. With pleasure.
(Oh my god I keep reblogging onto my main. stupiddd)
This is the photoset that inspired the entire blog. It’s the first time I really took notice of his hands.
Oh, but look. This blog exists. Nevermind. I guess it’s all set.
PS: OH MY GOD, JESUS CHRIST, YOUR BEAUTIFUL HANDS, SIR.
Spotted in my favorite building on campus, posted, one assumes, by some lovely little geek who I am very eager to befriend/marry.
Because I remembered that this happened and it was suddenly important to me that it be known to the world that I was at this Cumberparty long before it became the most bumping spot for everyone with a vagina and a wifi connection to hang out.
Benedict, Benedict, I like your face.
Not only your face, because, um, that name,
I like the whole Cumber-package (and THE Cumberpackage)but especially your face.
And on this, the occasion of your birthday, I compose a poem,
An effort exposing my deep affection, as I am most clearly no bard.
I remember you from Atonement, back in the day (10th grade)
I thought you made a cute rapist (is that something I can say?)
But my friends were less impressed (there are things about me this might say.)
Which is fine, because you’re mine, and I like your face.
And now you’re Sherlock, and Sherlock’s my thing (absolutely my thing.)
I’d present a photo of my third grade Halloween costume as proof
but, you know, I want to bang you, so, no.
You’re tall with a good voice and you look cute covered in nicotine patches.
Although, let’s be honest,
My Cumbersnatch would rather you just kept a smoking habit.
You took a year off of school to teach English in Tibet
Which is, like, totally cool but, something I’d never ever do (ew)
This probably says you’re a better person than me
Which is, like, fine, unsurprising, even preferable, and fine,
Like, ey don’t give those cheekbones to just anyone, right?
Benedict, you seem quite clever.
Not just ‘cause you fake solve crime, but Real Life Clever.
Big words, theater snob, reads the paper everyday clever.
We could read together in the mornings, in bed, in the rain.
(You’re English, like, fucking English, I’m melancholy, fucking whiny.)
Sex, politics, personal essays, snuggling, toast, eggs
Benedict.
“That’s fantastic!”
“Do you know you do that out loud?”
“Sorry, I’ll shut up.”
“No, it’s…fine.”
I CAN’T WITH YOU TWO. I CANNOT.
