13
Apr
Like any law-abiding citizen, I chose to spend my Friday afternoon in quiet contemplation of The Hiddlebatch. A spring breeze stirred the organza curtains. Brahms played softly in the background.
What happened next is all a blur. I first heard Tom Hiddleston referred to as “Errol Flynn reincarnated.” Then, within a matter of seconds, I saw him pat Benedict Cumberbatch on the shoulder and croon, “Darling….”
….and when I came to, I was lying on the sidewalk with a nasty bruise on my forehead, a six-figure bill from Madame Hapworth’s Home for Hopeless Fangirls clutched in my hand, and the distinct aftertaste of strychnine in my mouth.
If it is found, I woud request that my sanity be returned to me with all haste. Until then, I remain forever yours—
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