me: *rips skin off lip*
me: *continues to rip more skin off lip*
I FIXED UP A CONCLUSION AND DIDN’T EVEN GO OVER THE LEEWAY MAXIMUM IT’S A GOD DAMN MIRACLE
sploded said: dat inability to explain how Bran Stark got ran over by the puberty truck in a matter of days
the kid’ll go far
oh my god cishets
no, sister, someone misgendering me is not the same thing as someone taking the lord’s name in vain
I’m sorry if you find it offensive when I say ‘jesus fucking christ’ when emotional, but it is literally not the same thing as when you call me ‘she’
so not the same thing here
I’m so sorry your religion doesn’t have a stranglehold on western society anymore but you are so far from oppressed okay stop claiming that you are
I’m sure someone must have mentioned this before, but.
I was thinking about A Scandal in Belgravia yesterday, and how Irene manages to fake her death so convincingly.
Take a minute to consider how sinister this is:
Irene Adler had, at her disposal, a woman exactly fitting her measurements, complexion and overall aesthetic maintenance that she could have killed immediately and in a violent fashion in order for her to make her getaway to wherever.
Really, the more I think about it, the more disturbing it seems. She basically had on retainer a woman she could slaughter and have sent to a morgue at a moment’s notice, and in her employ the people who could perform such a deed. And it had to be a fresh corpse, too – not someone who died incidentally that she could have kept on ice until the time came. The body was accurate enough to have fooled both of the Holmes boys.
Do you think she just kept an “In Case of Emergency” file of well-groomed women fitting her physical description and level of beauty upkeep?
I mean, that goes just a bit beyond knowing what a morgue attendant or a DNA record keeper likes.
If you, like me, ever find yourself sometimes thinking too sympathetically about Irene, or doubting just how great a criminal mastermind she is, think about that.
Talk about dubious and questionable. Yikes.
You feel it, I feel it, everyone who has seen five minutes of BBC’s “Sherlock” feels it. There is something a bit… odd about Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch. Ladies adore him, gents like him too. He’s talented and intelligent and it’s generally agreed that he occasionally says things that are charmingly awkward yet ill-advised; for instance: asking Sir Patrick Stewart if taking a role in the “Star Trek” reboot would damage his career.
But dagnabbit… what is the thing with his face?
The gamut of intense reactions to Cumberbatch’s preternatural mug reveals our unconscious psychological bias toward certain facial patterns. Like a computer missing a chunk of software or the rioters at Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring,” we simply have no idea what to make of something so familiar yet… so odd. People become fixated on Benedict Cumberbatch’s face and can’t seem to talk about anything else. Some ladies clutch their pearls and declare him an ovary-annihilating “life ruiner,” while less enthusiastic observers (usually accompanied by a string of disrespectful jabs at his name) see him as some kind of freakish extraterrestrial. Ocassionally, detractors act as if they are uncontrollably repulsed by some aura of Das Unheimliche that apparently floats, miasma-like, around his head. For an actor with a rapidly exploding body of work and the potential to break out as a huge international star, that’s a pretty bizarre public response. The way some people go on, you’d think there was something fundamentally backwards about him.
Here’s the thing. There just might be.