I wanted to see what the most popular searches were as of late that started with “Twilight is…”
Needless to say, I had a good chuckle.
Hark! The ashes of our ancestors have reformed, rolled over in their graves and crumbled once more. How could they not? When Stephenie Meyer has clearly taken our lore and used it as a diaper after quenching her thirst with some Mexican tap-water. I’m aware that getting shat on is socially acceptable by some cultures, but:
I have a hard time accepting how the masses have found this woman’s rendition of the vampire appealing. She took everything that makes us the predators that we are, bedazzled it worse than a SoBe Ed Hardy shirt and dropped it off at a Glamour Shots studio.
I’m sorry, but we’re predators. I grasp that there is a certain romance to the seduction, as we have to lure in our prey. And it’s better to have you want us than fear us, lest you’ll be running away shouting
"rape!" “fire!” like they taught you in self-defense. But we do get off in that last moment, when you see our fangs descend… seconds before we take the drink that draws away your life.
I can’t imagine having no fangs, and needing to gnaw on your neck till some semblance of blood finds it’s way into my mouth. Or shit, chasing around an elk or a chinchilla because the thought of feeding on a human makes me tinkle in my RPatz underoos. Take the drink
pussy sissy, and shake off the fairy dust.
Which leads me to the shimmering skin. Right, shimmering… like we’re the embodyment of disco, hanging from a ceiling while Gloria Gaynor tells us how she’ll survive. I’m sorry, but when did we cease to become creatures of the night? When did we trade in our nocturnal ferocity to be crop dusted by a gassy sprite?
And wait, they’re cool enduring a love-triangle with werewolves now too? I guess if you’re a fangless vampire that shimmers like he just stumbled through Liberace’s closet, you’ve got to be a bit of an attention whore. Right? Right? Anyone? Bueller?
I read the books; all three of them. No, wait… four. Why would there be just three? I read them because I tend to finish what I start. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t wish someone staked me through the heart midway through the second book with a petrified cactus. It’s sad, really. If Dracula were around today, he’d be inconsolable. It’s like Jack the Ripper realizing they turned his life story into a musical comedy starring Topher Grace. ::shudders::
But I digress… for now.