No, I'm not wanking about some RP I'm in or the players, so if you've stopped in for drama of that sort, please move along. No, I've got another kind of angst to blog about. I've read somewhere that blogging about your day to day experience can actually help you---actually no, that was in
A Study in Pink, but damned if I care.
First, if I've recently
neglected to tag you, and I owe you tags, you have all my utmost apologies, but I've been grappling with my own abilities to write lately, and it's all the fault of that man there, in my icon.
No,
not Hugh Laurie, though I might as well throw him under the bus as well.
No:
Stephen FryStephen Fry; Cambridge scholar, actor, writer, comedian, youngest ever inductee of the Sherlock Holmes Society,
(EDITS: an ex-convict, and as
thelastenemy pointed out, hot-in-that-British-professor-way) arguably the reincarnation of Oscar Wilde, and the
bane of my existence.
And why do I hate him? Because I love him. Because he is everything that I would love to be and never
can be. He writes better than I do, he's smarter than I am, far more entertaining, immeasurably more talented, Mycroft fucking Holmes, and brilliant. He's brilliant.
I'm listening to his audiobook for
The Fry Chronicals and his command of the English language, the way he can turn the most boring of subjects into something of interest, the way he engages the listener in such a way that you
feel like this is a conversation and not a man reciting his book--all of it fills me with the kind of
envy that I'm sure to go to the ninth circle of Hell for. So many of my heroes I look up to, I admire, I wish to emulate, I
use their influence in my drabbles and my fictions but Stephen Fry leaves me filled with utter rage and self-disappointment.
I hate you Stephen Fry, and I hate you because I could never, ever
be you.
Never change.