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This Square Peg.

Happily Not Fitting In Since 1978.

Pinspirations.

Hi, there.

So I went to Pinterest a few weeks ago to get some ideas for my next protective style. As you know, I’ve been protective styling it more often than not, ever since my crochets in February. After deciding that I wanted some cornrows, I eventually descended into the sweet Pinterest rabbit hole, where you dig deeper and deeper into photos and inspiration until voilà and Eureka, you find it. And I found it. These two ‘dos caught my eye:

Basically, cornrows are braided on the sides and then fed into the braiding style in the middle. A braidhawk, if you will. Well, my eyes got really, really big and starry and I decided that I’d go this way next. After making an appointment with a braider that my mom likes to go to (not only is she super affordable but she provides the hair, which keeps me from getting lost in the rabbit hole of hair stores), I got my ‘do done this past Thursday. Here it is, dear reader:

style4style3style2style1

Needless to say, I love it almost as much as sliced bread. (I remain bread’s humble servant, so…) She did exactly what I wanted and I adore the look. I chose to have Senegalese twists in the middle, by the way. Also, I said nothing specific about length and she kept right on braiding, so the braids currently reach my derrière. I would post a standing shot so you can see the full length, but my pants were a bit too loose that morning (it was early, ok?), and you don’t need to see all of that. Anywho, trust me when I say that I’m basically sitting on them. Something certainly new for This Square Peg: I tend to get my braids mid-back and safe, not too attention grabbing, especially with working in the corporate world. But yay for changes and not worrying about all of that.

Here’s to Pinspirations and rabbit holes and women with the power to do amazing things for our hair.

Dressing Room Diaries #1: Stripes and Dots.

Sometimes I go to the store and I try things on. If you know anything about This Square Peg, you’ll know that doing that, especially during cold weather or when I’m bloated, hurts me. But baby steps. Anywho, sometimes I buy said outfits, sometimes I don’t. I almost always take pics of what I try on, though, so I can send them to my friends/fashion gurus to occasionally get their thoughts and/or to marvel at my growing baby muscles. (See here for proof that they are indeed growing.) And then the blogging epiphany came: this should be a feature on TSP. And so welcome to Dressing Room Diaries, where we look at what I try on in dressing rooms and discuss why or why not I purchased what I wore. Sometimes we’ll talk about pesky people who try to push open my dressing room door because it doesn’t dawn on them that someone is inside. Good times ahead.

This interesting dress immediately caught my eye while I was in Ross a few days ago. I’m sure you can guess why: the contrasting prints. I’m certainly not a stickler for keeping prints in the same family, for one thing, so I was definitely intrigued by it. It would also be a new look for me, being that although I’m not a prints stickler, I still haven’t ventured into the contrasting print world, either. After looking and examining and studying, I decided to buy it. A few days later, however, I returned the dress. Ultimately, I decided to go with something else. Of course, I could have kept this in my closet, but hey: I wanted my money back. Ha.

One thing I will say: I need more contrasting prints in my life. Bold, funky, and different–all good things.

Bienvenue, Dressing Room Diaries…

(p.s.: Maybe you’re wondering about the straightness of my hair? Unlike a friend of mine who panicked that I had returned to the creamy crystal meth/relaxer (not even), you likely guessed that it’s just a flat iron and that I remain a naturalista. You guessed correctly. After a much-needed trim, my stylist blew out my hair and then flat ironed it. Did you also guess that all that straightness disappeared after I worked out yesterday? Another gold star for you. Ah, well. C’est la vie.)

Tell me: do you like trying things on? Or are you a dressing room baby like me?

We Need to Talk about This.

Girl, you’ve been looking really nice lately, wearing all these beautiful dresses. What’s his name?lies

Oh my goodness, I didn’t even recognize you. You look so different! Are you seeing someone?

And on and on and on and on. The idea that a woman can’t spruce up her look/style for herself but because a man stands on the horizon somewhere, inspiring all the changes.

I’ve heard the above-mentioned remarks more often than not, and I’ve also scowled on the sidelines while such remarks have been made to my good friends.

I call a moratorium.

  1. Some women dress up for men. I’m not one of them.
  2. The assumption that I’m putting on nice dresses because of a guy reminds me of 1954. And I wasn’t even born in 1954. As much as I enjoyed watching Donna Reed on Nick at Nite, those days are largely over.
  3. And although you may wonder if it’s a generational thing–i.e., whether the individuals making the remarks were born in 1954–it’s not only women from a different generation making those statements. Some of my peers utter the same drivel, as well.
  4. “But it’s a compliment!”
  5. Is it really?
  6. What was I before the supposed man showed up and spread glitter and change throughout my closet? A medieval creature from a faraway black lagoon? A spinster who spent more time dressing her cats than herself?
  7. Can a woman actually wake up one morning and decide: you know what? I want to change my look. I want to dress up my awesome body. I want to change my hair. I want to throw on some Ruby Woo. Can she just do that because she’s a woman, because she has the right to?
  8. And let’s not get started on weight loss = you’re dating someone. Because perish the thought that a woman wants to be healthy for herself.

I can’t.

Clearly, I’ve had enough of these statements. Perhaps you have, too.myself

Let’s all compliment each other if we like. Here’s how: You look nice.

Whew.

*deep, cleansing breaths*

Happy Tuesday, y’all.

Products from Heaven: Vanilla, Shea, and other Non-Edibles.

Hi. I’m in love with the following three products. Links are also provided, if you’d like to take a look at them and welcome them into your world:

Olay Ultra Moisture Vanilla Indulgence Body Wash

It’s not edible. But I must stress that when I use this body wash, it feels like I’m swimming in a pool of vanilla cupcakes, each one more delicious and dangerous than the next.olay I’ve used Oil of Olay products here and there, but not enough to develop a relationship with them. (Because we’re really in relationships with these products, aren’t we?) Anyway, after randomly choosing this body wash one evening while shopping, it’s a new favorite. The scent is dreamlicious; my skin is soft and lovely after use. Try it. Just don’t eat it.

AVEENO® POSITIVELY NOURISHING®COMFORTING WHIPPED SOUFFLE

Also not edible. And yet the combination of cocoa and Shea butter in this creamy lotion is enough to inspire you (i.e., me) to at least search for an edible version of these dual ingredients. Maybe in an ice cream? aveeno souffleGelato? Souffle? Moving on: I’ve used Aveeno products since time began, and yet I mainly stuck with their daily moisturizing lotion. But this is no mere lotion. It’s so, so creamy. As soon as it touches my skin, I inhale deeply, relax a bit, and apply just enough to prevent sliding off my bed in the dead of night.

Vanilla Whipped Shea Butter

After nearly 4 years as a naturalista, I’ll definitely say that the product junkie-ism that inevitably comes with the natural hair life has largely abated for me. My bathroom no longer looks like an aisle in your local drugstore. I have my staple products. But once in a while, I watch YouTube videos and my eyes get big and I decide to try a few (only a few) of the things I’m seeing. Regarding this particular inedible product from Black Girl Long Hair Marketplace, I saw a neat video on the many uses of Shea butter and was reminded about how versatile it is. I’ve had the raw African Shea Butter in my bathroom for eons, but honestly, the scent wasn’t giving me the I-wish-I-could-eat-you feels. (Because this is how I make decisions on skincare, beauty, and hair: whether or not it smells like my next dessert. We keep it real here at This Square Peg…) Enter the aforementioned video, enter this website, enter the word “vanilla”, enter this yummy productbglh shea butter that I use almost every day in my hair care. Whether I’m two-strand twisting my hair, or smoothing it down for a puff, or just keeping the fro soft, I love it. FYI: If you order it, and you really must, choose to have it packaged in a cool container. I didn’t, which meant that my Shea butter came to me in a melted vanilla soup form. I whipped it myself. Anyway, definitely a keeper.

Any skin/beauty/hair products you’re crushing on lately? Tell me about them, pretty please. I’m always on the hunt for new favorites…

Tips.

As a singleton, invariably, 1) I’m offered someone’s murderous son/nephew/cousin/friend/random guy on the street as a potential marriage partner, and 2) I receive plenty of tips and advice about my future marriage. Here are a few of my favorites, along with a bit of commentary.

A good marriage consists of two forgivers. I’ve heard this more than once, and I like it. To me, it means that I can forgive him for forgetting that I occupy our home when a game is on and he can forgive me for reacting…melodramatically. (Think screaming “you obviously don’t love me” from our upstairs balcony.) marriagetip

Marriage isn’t 50/50. It’s 100/100. Another good one. I may be functioning at a third-grade level when it comes to Math and numbers, but this is clear: he will 100 percent buy me pretty presents and I will 100 percent love him for it.

The first year is the hardest; it can make you or break youMy mother said this to me. I believe her. I mean, yes, I imagined Idris and I just swimming in sunshine and roses that first year, but I don’t doubt that there will be some growing pains: what to name our yacht, pestering him to leave the outgoing message on my cell phone, reminding him about our weekly galas in the city (he can be so forgetful)…

Never go to bed angryTrue. But what about infuriated, incensed, and/or enraged?

All humor intended.

Happy Wednesday.

The Choice.

I haven’t shared fiction with you in a while, have I? Here’s one you’ll likely find in my third collection of short fiction. Yes, another book is coming. Call it a spoiler. Share your thoughts about it in the comments, won’t you?

Enjoy your Friday and have a bon weekend.

***********************************************************************

The Choice

The envelope sat on the picnic table next to her half-eaten blueberry muffin from that morning. Upon glancing at the sender’s name, his stomach dropped. He wasn’t in the habit of reading her mail, but privacy paled in comparison to the name in front of him. He pulled the letter from the envelope.

Cancer.

Dying.

I need to see you.

Gripping the iron chair for balance and the need to feel something firm and concrete—unlike the jelly that seemed to now permeate his body—Desmond continued reading. A plea to see her just once, to make amends. He swallowed thickly and placed the letter back into the envelope. Glancing at the muffin, he wasn’t surprised at her loss of her appetite.

 

The next morning, he watched as she quietly moved around the house, her demeanor unreadable. She occupied herself with her usual weekend routine of household chores: cleaning, dusting, vacuuming. He entered the kitchen from the patio just as she was approaching the sink. “I’ll take care of the dishes,” Desmond said. There were a few plates from their breakfast.

“You just mowed the lawn. I can do them,” she replied.

He smiled at her. “Let’s do them together.” With that, he pulled over a chair and sat next to her, as the sink had been modified to allow her to reach it from her wheelchair. “I wash, you dry.”

Liza gazed at him. “Deal,” she said, ruffling his hair.

While they washed, both silent, the contents of the letter ran around in his mind. He wondered how to reveal that he knew about it. But he wouldn’t have to wonder long.

“My father found me. He sent me a letter,” she said as she slowly dried a plate.

He didn’t reply, waiting for her to continue.

“He’s sick. Lung cancer. He wants to see me.” She looked up at him. “Tell me what to do.”

His heart thumped painfully. Every inch of his being wanted to do just that, to tell her to refuse to see him. But nothing about that desire was right or fair. “I can’t,” he said, gazing at her. “The decision is all yours.”

“What would you do?” she pressed.

“I really don’t know.”

“I don’t believe that,” she replied, suddenly reaching over and decorating his chin with a handful of soap suds. “You always know what to do.”

“Hey,” he mildly protested, returning the favor by piling suds on both sides of her face. It was a playful respite from the conversation at hand. He welcomed it, however brief it would be. And sure enough, as her laughter dissipated, he knew that they were quickly back to reality.

“I don’t know how to feel, Des,” Liza said quietly. “It’s like opening a door I’ve closed for a long time.”

Desmond nodded. “I know.”

 

“There’s no way I’d let my wife…” Rich Mooney shook his head, unable to finish his statement, and took a long swig of beer.

Desmond turned his empty glass around and around on the table, his mind a jumble of emotions and thoughts. While Liza napped at home, he had slipped out for a drink with Rich, his good friend and neighbor. Naturally, Rich quickly became a sounding board for Desmond’s present quagmire.

“The fact of the matter is, the guy doesn’t deserve anything from Liza,” Rich finally continued.

“Don’t you think I know that? But he’s her father.”

“I get that, Des. But father or no—he ruined his daughter’s life. Period.”

It was easy for Rich to carve the situation in simple black and white terms. He was the outsider looking in; the visitor to a situation that was older and far more complex than he knew. In the end, he knew that no opinion or thoughts on the matter, not even his own, could usurp whatever Liza decided she would do.

 

Later that night, as they both lay sleepless in bed, Liza released a long sigh. Desmond knew then that she would see her father. He wasn’t sure how he knew, how he understood, but the certainty of her decision was as plain as the ceiling above his head. “You’re not going by yourself,” he whispered, tightening his hold around her. “I’m going with you.”

Liza peered up at him, her eyes moist with tears. “You’re not angry?” she asked.

Desmond shook his head, nearly out of breath from the idea that he could ever be angry with her. It was impossible, even when they argued, to be angry with the woman he loved more than he could truly comprehend. “Never,” he firmly assured her.

 

Liza’s mother, however, had a far different reaction to learning that her daughter planned on seeing her father. That Monday morning, as Desmond sat in the usual LA morning traffic on his way to the office, Kate Harbor’s raised voice, on speakerphone, filled the confines of his car.

“How can you allow this, Desmond?” she cried. “That man is a monster. You’re pushing her into a room with a monster.”

For the past several moments following her phone call, he had remained silent as Kate expressed her outrage. If anything, he had surmised, her outrage was warranted. He shared it. Accordingly, there was no need to speak or to verbally agree to the feelings they shared. But the idea that he was forcing his wife to do this—Desmond needed to speak. “Kate, you need to understand that this is entirely Liza’s choice,” he interjected.

“It doesn’t matter. You should stop her.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“Desmond—“

“Your daughter is a grown woman, Kate. You don’t have to agree with what she’s doing, but you need to find a way to understand.”

After some silence on the other end, Kate cleared her throat. “I don’t think I can,” she whispered, her voice coated with emotion.

“But you have to try,” he replied softly.

 

Walter Harbor resided in a group home in a suburban neighborhood about 3 miles outside of New Haven, Connecticut. It was a stately three-story house that easily blended in with the other properties on the quiet street. A week later, as they sat in the car, Desmond watched his wife gaze at the house, her demeanor expressionless. Nevertheless, as she clutched his hand tighter and tighter, the fact that she experienced a range of emotions was indisputable. He leaned closer to her. “How are you?” he asked.

Liza shook her head. “I wish I knew how to answer that,” she replied, drawing in a prolonged breath. She then turned toward him. “But it’s now or never. I’m ready.”

Nodding, Desmond opened his door and made his way toward the backseat on the passenger side. He pulled out the wheelchair and positioned it firmly on the sidewalk. Opening her door, he carefully lifted Liza from the car and into the chair. As they headed toward the front door, he stopped himself from urging her into the opposite direction.

 

Perhaps more surreal than inhabiting a room with his wife’s father, a man he had never met or cared to, was watching him weep without feeling much sympathy for him.

Walter Harbor cried until the coughing fits that were a symptom of his cancer took over, turning his sobs into spasms that shook his frail body. Desmond watched from the corner of the room, mostly unmoved. He was solely interested in Liza’s side of the experience. For her part, Liza sat by the side of the bed and quietly waited for the coughing to subside until her father grew somewhat calm.

“I’m sorry,” Walter muttered, wiping his face with his hands.

“It’s ok.”

But almost immediately, fresh tears streamed down his weather-worn, hollow cheeks. “Seeing you—you’re so beautiful. I just—” He paused and held up his hand. “I’ll end up crying again. I’m glad you came, Liza. You’ve done really nicely for yourself. Your life, everything.” Walter nodded toward Desmond but didn’t look at him, which had been the case since the two had been shown to his room.

“Thank you. How did you find me?” Liza asked.

He grinned. “One of the guys from the force knew a private investigator, so I called in some favors. I was surprised that you left the East Coast. Thought you’d be a New York girl for the rest of your life.” He paused. “Is your mother—is she close by, in case you need her?”

“She’s close by.”

Walter nodded. “Good. I bet she wasn’t very happy when you decided to come see me, huh?”

“Can you blame her?” Desmond interjected, unable to stop himself from speaking.

Liza glanced at him. He mouthed “I’m sorry.” She smiled wanly and mouthed “it’s ok” in response.

“It’s understandable, yeah, her being mad about that,” Walter murmured, still not looking at Desmond. “I deserve her anger. I deserve your anger, Liza Marie.”

She shook her head. “Dad, I’m not angry with you. I stopped being angry at you a long time ago.”

He peered at her with wide, watery eyes, willing her to go on.

“I knew you drank too much. I knew you were sick. Deep down, I don’t believe you truly wanted to hurt Mom and me.”

Walter shook his head. “I went crazy that day, Liza. I never, ever meant to hurt my family,” he said fervently.

 

Her father was racing upstairs with a knife. After already hitting her mother, she knew he was going to kill her. Eyeing his left hand, which held the knife, 10 year-old Liza Marie Harbor ran up behind him and jumped on his back. She willed herself to be strong and to hold on tight. She was going to knock the knife from his hand.

Get off me, Liza, he threatened.

No! You won’t hurt Mom!

Without another word, he forcefully pushed her back, causing her to plummet backwards. When she finally reached the bottom of the staircase, sharp pains ran up her legs and her backside. She screamed for her mother until, strangely, the need to close her eyes came over her.

 

“You did hurt us,” Liza said simply. She leaned over and took her father’s skeletal hands in hers. “It was so hard for Mom and me, for so long. But 25 years later, Dad, I can only forgive you. I forgive you for everything.”

Desmond felt his chest tightening. A hard ball began to form in his chest; it was a paradox, this hard, tight ball, made up of rage for a man who he felt didn’t deserve forgiveness and heightened respect for the woman who had just given it to him.

Walter began to weep once again. “You can’t walk because of me,” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry, my darling. I’m so, so sorry.”

Desmond nearly rose to his feet. He ached to condemn Walter’s tears. He wanted to refute his apology.

Liza tenderly rubbed her father’s hands. “I accept your apology,” she said softly. With that, she leaned over and kissed her father’s forehead. “Be at peace with yourself, Dad. You’ve made your amends with me.”

Desmond shook his head, unable to stop trembling. Yell at him, he silently begged Liza. Be angry with him.

“You’ve made your amends me with me,” she repeated to her father, as if in response to Desmond’s silent plea. “Thank you for giving me life.”

Walter Harbor nodded slowly, gazing at her, his eyes brimming with tears.

Liza then turned toward Desmond. “We’re ready to go,” she announced. Her wide eyes, so much like her father’s, seemed to implore him to do what he struggled to do—to stand up and leave without another word to the man who painfully and irrevocably changed her life. Coming here was one thing. But Liza had to recognize that to leave without a word was too much to ask of him.

She held out her hand. Please, her eyes seemed to entreat.

Desmond stood up, his attention directed on his father-in-law, a man who couldn’t even look at him. But eventually, his attention was pulled toward the woman he loved, who waited for him with her outstretched hand. With a deep breath, he approached her and claimed that hand. Without looking back, Desmond pushed her toward the door.

“Desmond.”

He froze at the sound of his name. Slowly, Desmond turned around. Walter Harbor’s eyes were intently fixed on his. “You keep taking care of her,” he said.

She takes care of me, he wanted to reply. However, he merely nodded and departed the room with his wife.

 

They sat in the car, still parked by the group home.

“How could you forgive him, Liza?” he whispered. “Help me understand.”

“If I could, there are so many things in life I would have chosen to do. Have children. Dance at our wedding. So many things. But I had the power to choose this time, Desmond. And I chose to give my father something he’s never experienced in his life: peace of mind. That could only come from forgiving him.” She paused. “It was what I wanted to do.”

“But he took your choices away when he…” His voice caught in his throat. “When he caused your accident.”

“Yes, that is true. But without that wheelchair, I wouldn’t have accidentally rolled over your feet in Lecture Hall the first day we met.”

Desmond looked up at her, both taken aback and moved. Her words elicited the vivid memory of that day in college. He was still convinced that he had fallen in love with her on sight.

Liza beamed, smiling at him. “I choose to focus on that,” she said, “the effect rather than the cause. The cause was you. In the end, that’s all I choose to care about.”

From the beginning, he realized, this entire matter had been about choices. And he wasn’t about to take that away from her.

 

Pinterest Poses.

I pinned myself last night on Pinterest. I’ve pinned myself several times before, but this is the first time I’m blogging about it. Anywho, why does one pin themselves? I’ll tell you why I did it. I was quite in love with my hair last night (this whole weekend, actually) and I wanted to share it. Perhaps another naturalista on a Pinterest search for hairstyle ideas might see my kinks and coils and find some inspiration. After all, that’s why I go on Pinterest. So each one, teach one. Share the wealth. Pay it forward. Insert motivational cliché here. Here’s what I pinned:

hair13

As you can see, my kinky twists are gone and she’s back. She’s back and she’s thicker and a bit longer and she’s temperamental and she’s throwing a few more gray strands at me (see the smoother side of my hair in the photo for evidence) and she’s actually being obedient when I try updos and side hawks like what you see above and she’s in full effect and I’m happy to have her. I plan on letting her breathe through most of the summer before my next protective style. Or not. We’ll see.

For now, there may or may not be more Pinterest posing.

(The link is on my Contact page, but follow me here on Pinterest if you like…)

Happy Monday. Hope your weekend was bon and fantastic.

The Spray of Water.

Let’s just get into it.

When I was 15 years old, I was washing dishes in my 10th grade Home Economics class one day. Since I was barely passable during the cooking part, but bomb when it came to suds and plates, I was very comfortable at the sink. A boy in my class, Mario, approached the other side of the sink, adjacent to me, and started to “play” around with me while I washed the dishes. Trying to touch me, attempting to tickle me. I told him to stop, to leave me alone. He certainly didn’t listen, ignoring my protests and continuing with the touching and “playing” around. I repeated that I wanted him to stop. He continued. So I sprayed him in the face with the water gun. He smacked me across the face.

Growing up, my sister and I got into some physical altercations. Being sisters close in age who shared a room, every pair of socks looked the same and therefore had been stolen by the other and deserved some kind of retribution, every eye roll needed to be avenged, so on and so forth. The few times my brother and I got into it officially ended when my mother reminded me that he was no longer a five year-old. “Quit it,” she said sharply, focusing on me as the eldest sibling. “He’s a growing boy and you’re a young woman.” I got her drift. Here’s the point: we were family and therefore not actively trying to hurt each other. We succumbed to physical displays of anger and irritation, trying to prove our respective (largely juvenile) points when words failed us. After a few years, we grew up and dealt solely with words. Mario wasn’t my brother. He wasn’t my sibling. We weren’t family. Looking back, I specifically recall how inexplicably calm everything was, how calm I was. As the right side of my face burned with shock, as tiny stars floated around before my eyes, I continued to wash the dishes. I remained there, glued to that spot, my hands repeatedly drowning in warm, soapy water. After hitting me and demanding what was wrong with me, Mario eventually walked away. I finished my task, wiped down the counters, and returned to my seat. No teacher was summoned, I didn’t run screaming to a friend with tears in my eyes. (In case you’re wondering, apparently none of the students or our teacher saw this. If they had, no one said anything or intervened.) Prior to this, we had been somewhat friendly in class, sitting at the same table at times. After that day, I never spoke to him again.

Sometimes I wonder why I’m so sensitive to tales of domestic violence, why the thought of one person violently attacking another joined to them by marriage or relationship leaves me disturbed and shaken. Eureka. I’ve never forgotten the feel of his hand against my face, the way my cheek stung, how it hurt. I can’t imagine the thousands, millions, of women and men who have dealt with more than that and beyond in their relationships. Might be why I whisper “leave, please leave” when I hear about this happening, especially to women. It’s never justified. Mario’s actions weren’t justifiable. I don’t care about the spray of water dripping from his face.

As with other things that happened during those tenuous teen and adolescent years, I told no one about what happened and suppressed all the emotions that came with it. (I literally just told my sister about it a few weeks ago, when the memory randomly made itself known.) I don’t think I even wrote about it in my diary. I shoved it away as I was prone to do, youthfully unaware of all the little explosions that these events were causing inside of me. But those are the benefits of getting older and working on yourself: I’m talking about it now. I acknowledge the pain, anger, confusion, sadness, and shock I felt in that moment. I acknowledge that I did begin to hate him. And yet I can also say that hate is not an emotion I will presently allow. Wherever he is, I simply hope he’s no longer responding to situations the way he did when we were 15.

It constantly and honestly amazes me that I made it through those strange, long years, dear reader. But with healing comes memories, revelations, conversations. And we shall have them.

because it’s Wednesday.

benedict100

This one.

I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes because of him. If you haven’t watched his incredible rendering of Sherlock…your reasons better be good. Like living in a cave and/or not owning a television good.

Here sits Benedict Cumberbatch: all those letters in his name, those eyes, that voice (go to YouTube and listen!)…

I saw him in real life in October of last year, having stumbled upon the premiere of Black Mass in Leicester Square during my first evening in London. I took about 70 pictures and at least two videos of him.

I’ll end there.

Happy Wednesday.

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