Self-proclaimed writer and singer.
Others-proclaimed cynical bitch.
22 years old, more jaded than I should be.
Feminist, intellectualist, agnostic.
SuperWhoLockian, Loki fangirl.
A little pretentious.
A little hypocritical.
A little condescending.
A couple of times my friends have compared me to Sherlock Holmes. In my mind, it’s because they think I’m brilliant. I’m not stupid enough to believe it, though, nor am I arrogant enough to think I’m even remotely comparable to someone so brilliant. It’s just the explanation I like most. It’s probably more because of my perceived ignorance of others’ emotions at times. I say things I shouldn’t sometimes, occasionally without thinking of how the person will react, but usually just not caring. Not to be mean, of course, but because I think they need to hear it whether it hurts or not.
I’ve never really agreed with the comparison. Sherlock, at least the BBC version, is legitimately ignorant of peoples’ feelings. He’s a “high-functioning sociopath” and often doesn’t remember that other people don’t function the way he does. I, on the other hand, am not a sociopath. I just value information and logic over niceities and sparing feelings. That doesn’t mean I don’t have emotions like everyone else, or that I enjoy hurting people. I’m not heartless, and can actually be quite empathetic when necessary, I just don’t let nice pretenses get in the way of more important things.
I went back and watched The Great Game again today. The opening scene in Belarus, the one where Sherlock is listening to a man pleading for his life and only hears the grammatical mistakes, got me thinking. I’m quite a stickler for spelling, grammar, and syntax. Ask any of my friends, they’ll tell you how annoying I can be. Maybe the comparisons are more accrate than I’d thought.