Hello, My Name Is Dr. Watson.

There’s a big problem with being unemployed.  And I don’t mean the obvious bit, the not earning money and wasting your time at home.  Yes, those are bad consequences of being unemployed.  Another problem dwells among those with too much free time: obsession. 

When I first hit “rock bottom” I began watching Doctor Who, and I very quickly became very obsessed.  It is extraordinarily easy to suck me into a nerd fandom.  I do, after all, have a Harry Potter tattoo on my left forearm.  Doctor Who was a fantastic mental escape from the realities of my life, which is why I sat and watched it for 7 days nonstop.

Technically, I’m no longer at rock bottom.  I’ve started to build on that base toward something better.  Although, it wouldn’t be that far of a fall to get back to rock bottom.  In fact, I’ve fallen a few times already.  Any little thing can push me over.  (Pretty bad lighting down here.) 

So easily I slip and fall and find a new obsession.  Usually it’s something on BBC. Damn them for having such quality programming. No wonder American television corporations steal everything they do.  (It’s true.  Didn’t you know that American Idol used to be Pop Idol in England?)

Lately I’ve become, as I understand the term, a “Cumberbitch.” I am “Sherlocked” as they say.  I have 2 residences, here at 905 Liminality Street, and also on 221B Baker Street, London.

Okay, I’ll explain “Cumberbitch,” I know you’re dying to know.

The man that plays Sherlock in Sherlock is named Benedict Cumberbatch (Hell of a name, right? Damn I love the English).  He has a fan base (of mostly women) that freely call themselves “Cumberbitches.”  Of course, he doesn’t approve of the term, because it’s sexist, and asked the fandom to change the name to “Cumberbabes.”  (British feminist actor… a man after my own heart.)  I’m helplessly pinning memes and photos of this man on Pinterest, so apparently I’m now a “Cumberbitch.”   “Cumberbabe.”  Whatever. 

Again, helplessly obsessed because I’m unemployed until the semester begins.

My obsession has not been entirely fruitless, however.  I've picked up pieces from the series that help me narratize my life. In the series, Dr. Watson and Sherlock have a complicated friendship.  (Lots of discussion about the homoerotic tension.) One of the most memorable lines, pulled from The Hounds of Baskerville, comes from a socially awkward Sherlock who understands he needs to apologize to a kind-hearted Watson.  Sherlock, however, can’t just say “Sorry” because it would mean a fault; "Sorry" would mean he was wrong on some account, and Sherlock is never wrong. He says instead, “I meant what I said before.  I don’t have friends.  I have one,” implying Watson is Sherlock’s one and only friend. Watson, confused, simply walks away and changes the subject, unsure how to process emotion from Sherlock. Sherlock chases after Watson, realizing this apology is not getting across, and throws a few more attempts ("You are amazing! You are fantastic!") and finally lands on "You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable." This of course, is no longer an apology but a prowess of Sherlock's intelligence disguised as a backhanded compliment to Watson. 

This short scene between the two gives insightful detail about each of them.  

Watson has a kind heart that hides his quick brain. He needs a companion to pull him out of loneliness, to give him purpose, adventure, and to push him enough out of comfort to be the intellectual badass that he is.

Sherlock has a massive intellect that shrouds his kind heart buried deep inside. He needs a companion to keep him grounded, remind him where his heart is, remind him that he’s a condescending asshat, and finally, remind him that while he is an intellectual badass, he’s actually more than that. 

Every Sherlock is in search of a Watson, and every Watson is waiting for a Sherlock.

I suppose this might be one reason why I’m a Sherlocked Cumberbitch/Cumberbabe/Whatever. I’m a Watson.  Waiting for a Sherlock. In need of adventure and purpose but dealing with a fucking psychosomatic limp that I won’t be able to get rid of until someone forces me to run after a taxi harboring a serial killer.  I’m not afraid of the war, I miss it.

So come to Baker Street if convenient?

If inconvenient, come anyway.

It might be dangerous.