Yes, the fault was mine for breaking the code of masculine honor known as the Bro Code (known also as Man Law or Dude Policy) and watching a chick flick, and, worse, by myself (technically two infractions in one).
Trying to chase Cameron Diaz and those cute, British kids (and, yes, Jude Law) out of my head was a daunting task, and instead of doing something butch like building a cabin or playing Force Unleashed to reinvigorate my manliness, I delved into a depression unlike anything that I have ever faced before in my life: I was reading Twilight.
A Note to My Non-Existent Readership: This gets long. If you’ve got anything better to do, including watching reruns of According to Jim on TBS, please do that instead.
This disgusting turn of events came briskly. I had, before this occasion, tried to read this book twice. The first was to appease an attractive, and equally psychotic, girlfriend. I got through the first chapter and realized that I needed to break up with her.
The second was more recent, after my mother received the book as a Christmas gift and it sat, unopened on a counter for far too long, eyeing me constantly.
My reading was stopped short after the chapter “Port Angeles” when I was too pissed at Edward Cullen to move on. This was a week ago.
Now, after watching two hours of a tale that can be told in ten minutes, I, for some reason, turned to that novel, which sat half-buried in a pile of my other tenuous reading projects. Perhaps from the disgust that I never finish anything, perhaps from the knowledge that I could prey restlessly on 19-year-olds if I finished or perhaps because I secretly wanted Mrs. Meyers to redeem herself, I sauntered on.
Today, I have finished my mission. Today, I write my critique.
In reading Twilight, I have had three powerful epiphanies:
The perfect man for a pathetic, neurotic, teenage girl is a pathetic, neurotic teenage girl.
The only rational character with any sort of basis in reality in the entire book is Rosalie.
I can never date anyone whose perfect man is equatable to any character in that book (except Rosalie).
Edward is a pathetic, neurotic, teenage girl. Before you get all up in a huff, I have evidence.
First, he’ll sell out everyone who is close to him and everything they’ve spent centuries to protect for a crippled and distorted emotion we clumsily call “love.” Romantic, sure, stupid, definitely. Literally after hearing a spooky story and googling vampires, Bella Swan was confident that Edward was a vampire. This was the same logic that Bush used to establish that there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, except Bella was right. Edward didn’t even defy her, just haphazardly confirmed her suspicions in public.
Second, he does things that no straight guy would do to impress a girl, like talking about feelings or tracing her eyelids to make her tingly.
A Note to Any Female Readers: I don’t need to hear your thoughts when you say “My boyfriend/husband/guy I’m stalking talks about his feelings with me.” When guys talk about their feelings, they’re lying so that you’ll make out with them.
Granted, I’ve taken notes, and the next legal-age, teenage girl I meet, I’ll be brushing with my lips in greeting (I’m already ghastly white, it should work.)
Finally, nobody, except for a perfectly neurotic teenage girl watches strangers sleep, let alone is flattered when they find out that someone’s been watching. And vampire or no, Edward had been watching her sleep for a long, creepy time.
Rosalie is the only rational character based on any form of reality and the true protagonist.
Fact—if my family has been harboring the secret for centuries that we are vampires and my youngest brother (or son) rattles that off to some seventeen-year-old with a brain full of vampire pablum, then they both die. No matter how much I love them. Or how much she loves him or vice-effing-versa. Loose lips sink ships. Rosalie is the only one with family honor.
To explain in a more clear (and manly) way, it’d be like Clark Kent spilling his guts to some hot reporter chick that he’s a member of an elite crime-fighting organization called the Justice League and then tells her everybody’s name and secret identity. How about a little discretion, Edward?
Finally, because this is waxing long and pointless, I end with this. In my efforts to find girls “worth” dating, I ask one simple question: Where is Ghandi from?
The responses to this question has left me morosely dateless for over a year. The insipid and hopeless responses I have received show me that there is little hope for my future (at least in America). Now I have to ask yet another damnable question to every girl I meet: Who is your favorite character from Twilight and why? If the answer is anything but, “I’ve never read Twilight,” they immediately fail. But if they answer Rosalie,perhaps they’re not so crazy and neurotic after all.
And on that note, till next blog.