Thursday, November 6, 2014

an open letter to my future husband

I first saw you in your deerstalker and upturned collar a few years ago, blithely unaware of the grip you would soon hold on my heart --with your piercing eyes, firm mouth, and oh-so-deliciously large hands.

The dashing mop of unruly hair and long limbs like an urban gazelle did not hurt either; nay, their mere existence now breaks my heart.

Come back to me, my dearest Benedict Cumberbatchelor --do not withdraw prematurely your love!

I care not about Molly or even John, (who I envy in the dark depths of my jealous heart)!

I barely knew ye, did not appreciate ye enough when I did, and now you’re about to become simply Benedict Cumberbatch, the single most distressing truncation I can possibly imagine, save for the shaving of your precious hair.

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