The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name

or

Yet Another Horrific Glimpse Into the 

Lovecraftian Nightmare of My Brainium*

You ever find yourself reading BlatherBlahg and going, "What the hell is wrong with this person?"

You're not alone--I wonder it too! And so we begin another confessional/ therapeutic session/ uncomfortable TMI moment.

Regular readers (all .0146 of you) will have noticed that I can get a stuck on certain actors/musicians/creative public types. How? Why? 

Ultimately, I blame the Internet. As with so many other things, it just makes it too damn easy to get all obsessive compulsive about, er, things. In fact, you don’t even have to do your own dirty work anymore, because chances are there is some cray cray fan out there who has done all the video hunting, magazine scanning, screen capping and (occasional) real life stalking for you. 

So, I guess it really started when I watched Thor** on pay per view earlier this year. I was underwhelmed by the experience. To sum up, my thoughts went a little like this:   

• huh, I expected better from Branagh.  

• WTF is up with the magically shiny Asgard made of disco plastic? 

• That is some baaaad hur weave, Thor.

• Natalie Portman as a scientist?? Not buying it.

• That bad guy is fun. Nice helmet.

• Ooo! Cask of Ancient Winters??? I remember that from the comics!

• Hellooooooo Idris Elba.

• Stellan Skarsgard! He should be in every movie. All the time.

Then The Avengers rolled around. Which was like a nerd geek holy day celebration. Strange, because I never got into the comic. But the movie was so much fun, and I easily forgave its flaws in the face of entertainment. 

Now, here’s the part I can’t trace for you. I don’t what happened in this last 4-5 weeks that made me revisit these movies. But through some strange twist of fate, I looked up something Avengers related and ended up on a Wiki Walk. 

Hear that? That sound was the Gong of Encroaching Doom. For one link led to another, and another, and soon I was knee deep in You Tube interviews, gifs, and photos. And worst of all: Tumblr. <---And that’s a huge tip off as to what this whole thing is about.

And what happened? This asshole, that’s what:

Why can't I ever meet a man that doesn't have daddy issues?

Everybody knows they photoshop these things.

Unretouched photo. Still amazing. Disgusting

Mother Effin Tom Hiddleston. Okay, so he's pretty. If you're into soulful, mutable eyes and razor cheekbones. But there's something else. He reminds me of someone. . . 
 

Aww. . . it's Spot.

Aww. . . you're planning patricide.

Yes, yes. There is that. That’s cute. Wait, you’re a natural blonde? Oh good, I don’t prefer blonds. 

Damn. Damn. That’s some crazy hair. I lurves me some crazy hair. And the feeling of familiarity is growing.

OH SNAP! That’s so unfair. Why can’t you remind me of someone I hate?

Honestly, he’s too tall. He’s too pretty and fey. He’s too, too Eton. But, he’s also unfailingly polite in interviews. He’s passionate about his work. He sings and dances, on stage and off. 

Infamous tweet to fans as thanks for Loki support. Bastard.

Can I get some fries with that shake, shake a booty?

He does impressions of his co-stars. Really good impressions. Uh-oh. Danger, gurl, danger! He dresses well and accessorizes.

Vest. . . like Kryptonite. Resistance. . .fading. . . gasp. . .

Furthermore, his fandom is populated by some whacked out peeps. I love a fandom that doesn’t take itself too seriously, while taking itself really really seriously. Cognitive dissonance*** is good for the soul.

http://gofuckyourselftomhiddleston.tumblr.com/

http://lokismonstercrotch.tumblr.com/

I mean, any blogs/tumblrs with “sits like a whore appreciation posts” can’t help but win my admiration.

And so, as I tumbled down the rabbit hole of ovary imploding life ruination that is Hiddles, I eventually wandered onto Ye Olde Wikipaedia. You always end up there sooner or later. It was while reading that entry that my universe did a record scratch. 

One line. One simple little line.

born 9 February 1981

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. Over.

Oh no. HELL NO. This dude is young. Wait, he’s not just young. He’s younger than my little brother. That date looks familiar because it makes him almost ONE YEAR YOUNGER THAN MY BABY BROTHER. I mean, come on. People born in the 80s probably don't even count as actual humans. They are some kind of Pop Tart/MTV cyborgs. (I can't even talk about people born in the 90s. Are they real? Do they have all their parts? It just doesn't seem possible).

A sudden and terrible silence descended.

Look, I don’t do younger, okay? It’s not just a preference, it’s almost biological imperative. My physiology won’t support it—the moment the “younger” information registers, the attraction is gone. Finito. Shuffled off its mortal coil. An ex-parrot, if you will.

So, I was pretty horrified that I had just invested SRS Stalking Time, possibly to the point of Top Five Freebie addition, to such a wee little bairn. After several shots of whiskey and multiple showers, I thought I would be okay.

But I made a classic blunder. Only slightly less well known than never getting involved in a land war in Asia—I took One Last Look.

Big mistake. Huge.

Because more crap kept showing up.

Sure, go ahead. I never liked Shakespeare that much. *coughignoreallquotesatblatherblaghcough*

Wait, did you just make Shakespeare sexy? Who do you think you are, Ian McKellan? 

Shakespearean Sweat: When You Care To Sweat The Very Best

Dear lord. Put your shirt on.

Seriously? This is my thing, man. Everybody knows it. I wanna be a raptor. Knock it off.

 

OMG---ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME? IS THIS EVEN REAL LIFE? NO ONE IS THAT NICE. JEEZ!

Did you just whiteboy rap, trash talk, do impressions—all in the same interview? STOP IT. JUST STOP. THIS IS RIDIC---

 

 

OKAY, THAT TEARS IT. YOU—OUTTA THE POOL. I REJECT YOUR EXISTENCE. THIS IS MADNESS.

It’s an onslaught of charm, a full frontal of charisma, full scale global thermonuclear geekery, DEFCON 1 dorkiness. How can I fight against this?

But fight I shall!

I shall employ my Brodys, Fassbenders, and Butlers. I will use the stealth Ferguson. I deny thee, Hiddles. The power of Waterston compels you. Begone! In nomine Pacino, et Sting, et Elliott Sancti. 

I am heartily ashamed of myself. Pray for me, you guys. Pray Harderer: The Electric Boogaloo Sickening.

*tentacles not included 

**No-Prize for anybody who guessed the object d'amour from that clue alone 

***No scientific evidence to back this up, but with the regularity of occurrence in my life, I sure hope it's true