“Depression is such a cruel punishment. There are no fevers, no rashes, no blood tests to send people scurrying in concern. Just the slow erosion of the self, as insidious as any cancer. And, like cancer, it is essentially a solitary experience. A room in hell with only your name on the door.”
Sonnet 57 by William Shakespeare
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
“Fifty-seven of those texts…. the one’s I’ve heard.”
How men should give head
💀💀💀
me
LEARN YO BITCH’S SNOWFLAKE
#FLAPS EVERYWHERE #A WORLD OF FLAPS #LEARN YO BITCH’S PARTICULAR FLAPS.
(Source: http://broadlybrazen.tumblr.com/)
I am 100% convinced that Mark Gatiss, no matter how much he loves the characters, would not touch Sherlock Holmes and John Watson if he had to do some winky, queerbaiting, no homo bullshit with them. He wouldn’t have agreed to write the show with Steven if they weren’t in agreement on that. They wouldn’t have proceeded with producing it, if the BBC were not on board.
And honestly every time I see it suggested that he would do that to queer people when he is an outspoken advocate for better queer representation in the media and a married gay man himself, I just get really offended on his behalf. Stop using him to screen your heteronormativity.
[Sherlock Holmes] is the personification of something in us that we have lost, or never had. For it is not Sherlock Holmes who sits in Baker Street, comfortable, competent and self-assured; it is ourselves who are there, full of a tremendous capacity for wisdom, complacent in the presence of our humble Watson, conscious of a warm well-being and a timeless, imperishable content. The easy chair in the room is drawn up to the hearthstone of our very hearts—it is our tobacco in the Persian slipper, and our violin lying so carelessly across the knees—it is we who hear the pounding on the stairs and the knock upon the door. The swirling fog without and the acrid smoke within bite deep indeed, for we taste them even now. And the time and place and all the great events are near and dear to us not because our memories call them forth in pure nostalgia, but because they are a part of us today.
That is the Sherlock Holmes we love—the Holmes implicit and eternal in ourselves.
Edgar W. Smith (x)