Here's The Thing About Benedict Cumberbatch...

Disclaimer: I'm just a girl with a crush on an actor. I'm not crazy, my mother had me tested.

But here's the thing about Benedict Cumberbatch. 

He’s flawless in his strangeness.

Above: beautiful alien.

Oh, it's so hard to keep my squee in check when we're talking about him. But I’ll try to explain my love using words rather than just mashing my boobs on the keyboAEFEZANJL.OHNJSDFVGJHYDSFGVA

Ahem. 

Right, we're going to use words. Here are some words:

THAT VOICE THOSE CURLS THAT TALENT THOSE PIERCING BLUE EYES THAT BRITISHNESS ALL THAT CHEMISTRY WITH MARTIN FREEMAN THAT UPPER LIP HIS GENERAL SWEETNESS AND GENUINE INTELLIGENCE AND PASSION FOR HIS JOB AND HUMBLE SELF-DEPRECATING BEAUTY  OH AND THAT EFFORTLESS GRACE THAT PERMEATES EVERY PART OF HIM WHEN HE ACTS.

You might have guessed that I'm serious about Benedict Cumberbatch. I don’t mind being called a cumberbitch. I don’t mind being called a leperous prostitute with an enthusiasm for the b’cumz.  Any label that shows my devotion to this man I’ve never met is FINE with me.

The thing I love about cumberbitches (or cumberladies, cumbermuffins, cumberpuffs, what have you) is that it takes a certain sensitivity to understand why Benedict Cumberbatch is so awesome. That sensitivity usually comes with cleverness and an almost manic loyalty which makes Cumberbatch fangirls just the funniest, craziest, most entertaining fanbase I've ever come across. 

See, Ben* is not just a Hollywood hunk with fake teeth and a six-pack. He's one of those serious actors that does plays and movies about war and the past and shit. Despite his mesmerizing performance as Sherlock, he's played Stephen Hawking, Vincent Van Gogh, Victor Frankenstein, and of course, plenty of important old guys from the past. He's not famous because he's hot - 

Doesn't hurt either... *smolder smolder smolder*

He's famous because he's a fucking amazing actor. And that's exactly why I'm totally spectacularly ridiculously obsessed with him. Do you know how short my attention span is? Do you know how superficial I am? I get BORED, you guys. I get over most crushes in the time it takes me to tweet about it. But since I saw the first season of Sherlock six bloody months ago, I can't get Benedict Cumberbatch out of my head.

He defies logic. He has an unfortunate name and he's one of those cursed people who has a double-chin even when they're really skinny. Anyone that posh is usually crippled by his own privilege. He's not supposed to be a star - he's not even supposed to have the self-assurance to be an actor. But he's got this confidence, this charisma, this endless talent-tinged energy that gives you a glimpse of something far deeper than ordinary life when he performs. 

And once you get that glimpse, it's a little addictive. You end up watching really depressing period dramas and poorly written Hugh Laurie shows just to get your fix. If you're really lucky, you'll even discover a hilarious and perfect radio sitcom** that takes Benedict Cumberbatch's voice to new levels of endearing sweetness (did I mention he has great comedic timing? Because HE TOTALLY DOES.)

But it's not all perfect. So he's cheating on me and THAT'S OKAY. Apparently he's still with "designer Anna Jones" (the obnoxious air quotes will never die) whom he began dating a few months ago. I loved how on twitter all the girls were all like "ooh we're so happy for him" and I was all WHO IS THIS BITCH  and taking my earrings off. 

It's one of the perils of him being so extraordinary -  it's easy to forget that he's an actual person who lives in the world, as is his girlfriend. He wants babies, she has lovely childbearing hips. I'm sure they're very happy together (she typed as blood poured from her slit wrists onto the keyboard.) 

That neck will be the death of me.

He's lovely, and I want him to be happy of course. It's just that a big part of me wishes he'd realize that "designer Anna Jones" has a boring name, break up with her, and then one lonely night he'll be drinking red wine and on a whim decide to google his own name. And then he'll come across this blog and see what a lovely convoluted name I have (my middle name is Shamilevna, bitches, I'm fascinating) and then he'll smile and send me an adorable email and we'll chat and get married and stuff.

IT COULD HAPPEN.

 *Of course we're on a first-name basis. We're dating, remember?

**Pretty please click on this link, because Cabin Pressure is the source of almost all my sitcom references nobody will get tags!

IMAGES USED DON'T BELONG TO ME. FIRST AND LAST ARE © BBC (SHERLOCK SCREENCAPS), I'M AN IDIOT AND CAN'T FIND CREDIT FOR THE SECOND PIC. IF YOU KNOW WHERE IT'S FROM, PLEASE TELL ME SO I CAN CREDIT! THANKS FOR READING ♥

Project: Not A Fanfic

So last night I had a dream about this amazing novelling software that helped with planning, note taking, quote collecting, and making high-waisted Guess jeans fit. Just a fun fact that has nothing to do with the rest of this entry.

Well I guess it does, in a way, as it concerns novelling (novelizing? noveltry? novel-mongering?) I figure since I keep declaring myself a writer, I want to somehow back that up by talking about the stuff I'm working on. (You can tell by the elegant structure of that last sentence that my Pulitzer is in the post.)

I have two big projects on at the moment, which will hopefully both grow up to be novels. The first is an idea I had about eight years ago and have been afraid of tackling since – let's call it Project: Stone Cold Bummer (30 Rock reference!) because not only does it involve elements of genocide and the moral bankruptcy of wealth and feral children, it's also forced me to do a lot of research into factory farming and modern agriculture, which believe me is a stone cold bummer in itself. If you don't believe me, just google ‘factory farming’ and you'll see why I'm thoroughly depressed about the world. And then google ‘do a barrel roll' to cheer yourself up.

But anyway, the second project that's alive and kicking right now is my NaNoWriMo attempt, and perhaps the kindest name for it would be Project: Not A Fanfic (I like the colon in my project names - it has a Mission: Impossible feel.) I've attempted NaNo two or three times before, but always faded away because I never actually planned much beyond “I'm just going to keep writing until I get hungry.” But this year, I made notes. Hell, I even have an ending! And a beginning! The middle, though, is a slightly different story... or rather, a lack of one.

Notes! What is it about a new black pen on fresh white paper that gets me all tingly?

There's just the tiny matter of this blank page.

As for the (incredibly kind though not highly accurate) name of Project: Not A Fanfic... you see, I've been watching Supernatural quite a lot lately (soon we'll have a whole blog entry devoted to the deranged excellence that is Misha Collins) and it's possible that a few elements of the story are shamelessly stolen from inspired by the Supernatural franchise. 

It's not a big deal, so maybe I'm referencing tiny insignificant things like a character (or three) and maybe the overarching plot or even a forbidden angel-human gay love story - but come on, what adventure fantasy doesn't include that these days? It's practically a given! (Like hobbit-wizard relations with homoerotic undertones. Or lightning-shaped scars that hurt when one is near a bad guy who killed one's parents.) I'm critically addressing the tropes of the genre! It's not copyright infringement if you're consciously troping, right? Right!

So Project: Not A Fanfic is roughly a quarter through its first draft, and it's been a bit of a mission to pull out of my brain (or out of the ether? Let's pretend my brain isn't made of ether) and get onto paper. I think part of the problem is that the devil-monkey on my shoulder – the same thing that tells me it's okay to have that third cup of ice cream or stay up past 2am watching Comic-Con panels on youtube – realised early on that I was serious about this project. Some people's devil-monkeys organise flat tyres, friends who call crying in the middle of the night, and computer viruses (*spits three times* *crosses self* *gives the monkey ice cream*) to keep them distracted from the work at hand. My monkey lacks this sort of initiative and creativity – it just makes me stare blankly at the screen, mind soaked in self-doubt, and convinces me to take a break every thirty seconds for either coffee or the bathroom (one habit tends to enable the other.)

So this project is alive largely due to the glory of the productivity steroids woven into Dr Wicked's Write Or Die. The web app is free and quite useful, but I highly recommend giving this god among men ten bucks for the desktop version. It's great because you can customize how harsh you want 'punishments' to be (I'm sensitive and easily spooked, so the screen going red is quite enough for me without the soul-shattering sound effects) and you can customize a bunch of other stuff too. It really is a lifesaver if you've got to write a first draft in a hurry and / or you suffer from devil-monkeys.

In case anyone cares, my devil-monkey looks roughly the same as the Chicken Licken orangutan, but mine wears those kitsch little light-up devil horns you find in every Cardies on Halloween.

Is it bad that this is one of my favourite ads ever? I love the music and the puppetry and the fact that this guy looks more like a strung-out junkie than a fried chicken enthusiast. But I can't think about those hot-wings without feeling a little sick. I won approximately a metric tonne of them once... let's just say the devil-monkey made sure they didn't last long.

Editor's Note: Sorry about the impossible amount of ellipses and brackets in this entry. I'm definitely in first draft mode... (and ellipses... will always be a bad habit... from my fanfic days... don't they just... imply so many... impossible.... to... articulate... feelings...?!?!)

Playing FTSE

(Okay, so I'm technically 'playing JSE', but that's not a naughty pun now is it?)

Yesterday, I bought 13 shiny shares of Compagnie Financiere Richemont, which is a blue-chip company that owns luxury brands like Cartier and Chloe. They also own Net-A-Porter, which is filled with so many beautiful, overpriced things that it makes me want to cry. It's pretty great to think that, even though I'm very far away from affording the D&G bling on Net-A-Porter, I now own a molecule or two of every lovely thing on that site.

When I was looking for companies to invest in (using FNB's Share Builder) I noticed that almost all of the blue-chip companies on offer were based on everything that's wrong with the world. Would I like to put my money in tobacco, or liquor, or heartless oil giants? I'm surprised pornography conglomerates and puppy-stomping franchises weren't listed.

Random fact: did you know that the term blue-chip comes from poker, where the blue chips are the most valuable ones? I had to google this before I committed to actually buying some of them.

So anyway, the least sinful of the batch of companies was Richemont, so I went for it. I figured it couldn't be a worse investment than my recently ordered collection of Little Britain, which I'm super excited to get! And I spent about the same amount on both investing in my future; and Matt Lucas dressed as a wayward teen girl, Vicky Pollard, going "Yer but no but yer but no but SHARRUP!"

And while we're not on the subject at all, The *Poof!* Diet is going quite well. Most of The Pants are fitting again! Victory! Now I'm tempted to switch over to the half-the-calorie diet by Little Britain's FatFighters coach Marjorie Dawes, it goes like this: "You take your favourite food, and you only eat half of it. That way, it's only half the calories.... So you can have twice as much!" Solid logic.

Ah, Little Britain is amazing. You can watch most of it on Youtube. And you SHOULD! Because it's amazing. And my collection will arrive just in time to replace all the regular programming lost to some sort of kickball contest thing that everyone's excited about.

And another one from Vicky Pollard:

 Social Worker: Vicky, where is the baby? 
Vicky: Swapped it for a Westlife CD. 
Social Worker: How could you do such a thing? 
Vicky: I know, they're rubbish.