Wednesday, December 21, 2011
You Can Cumber My Batch Anytime, Benedict
Dear Mr. Cumberbatch,
I really would appreciate it if you'd take a small vacation from my head.
Just a small break will do. You must allow me some time to do other things.
Yes, yes, I know you want me to get straight into bed with you so that you can ravish me, no need to point.
But I have to get some housecleaning done. I can't concentrate on my work.
I've missed entire meals because you'll just happen to pop up in my YouTube playlist and then I'll sit there for hours listening to you read fairy tales with that delicious voice of yours.
Your accent goes straight to my vagina.
I spent the afternoon in the hospital because my ovaries exploded.
And I will never be able to hear 'Little Red Hen' again without it eliciting a sexual response. But I forgive you.
I'm starting to lose friends because I can't talk about anything else.
Damn you and your awesome hair and awesome voice and awesome suit and awesome pink socks.
And the Purple Shirt of Sex. Ohhhhhhhhh the Purple Shirt of Sex!
Non-believers know not the mighty power of the PSoS. Able to incinerate panties around the world in a single leap.
When you reply, please be kind enough to enclose reparation payments for all the underwear of mine that you've burnt to a crisp. I can't afford to buy any more.
And I see from the trailers of next season's 'Sherlock' that you once again wear the PSoS. You might as well send me the money for that now. I may have to stop wearing underwear altogether.
And did I mention the mental anguish I've been given from my husband? I think that he may be jealous of your phwoarness.
He says your eyes are too far apart and asks why I would want to be in love with someone that I'd have to stand on a chair to make out with? He just doesn't understand the dedication of a Cumberbitch.
All I'm asking for is time.
Time to meet with friends, spend time with husband, and to sleep and to eat and to remember to breathe and stuff.
But not too much time. I don't think I could handle it for too long.
Ok, I changed my mind.
Forget what I said. I was in shock.
You're allowed to take up as much room in my head as you'd like. Stay as long as you like.
But make sure you're wearing the Purple Shirt of Sex.
Or a bedsheet is fine. It's all fine.
Love and kisses and squees and I'd like to climb you like a tree,
Ok. I just had to get that out.
Here's a fun fact: I discovered today that if you search the term 'Cumberbitch' on Google Images, about halfway down there are pictures of Chuckles, most awesomely the one of him wearing the tiara.
Cumberbitches everywhere are going to see the pictures, fall out of love with Benedict, and start drooling after my husband.
Wonder what his fangirls will be called?
Edit: I decided to start a Tumblr blog to feed my Ben-addiction. Please visit Cumberbitch Sandwich if you suffer from the same glorious affliction.