So, lovely readership of two (you assholes better promote your new favorite blog), I have finally decided to pen my first bitch rant. It took me a while to decide what topic deserved my bitchy attention first, and I kept coming back to the one thing that’s been plaguing my happiness all summer long.
I shall prelude this rant with this disclaimer: I have not technically read the work of fiction that I am about to verbally destroy. I have not and I don’t want to read it, simply because of one thing: the fans.
They scare the shit out of me. They are rabid and ferocious and remind me of Hanson fans back in 1999, or maybe Miley Cyrus fans of today–but with fangs. Why fangs? Because, dear readers, these teenage girls love Twilight.
This book has been heralded by many as the next Harry Potter, and the movie producers certainly found a way to make HP fans everywhere go see it: Cedric Diggory lives again as the beautifully tragic vampire, Edward Cullen. But anyway. I digress.
Next Harry Potter? WHAT THE FUCK, PEOPLE. Let me explain the storyline in a nutshell: Beautiful mortal girl loves a beautiful undead boy, whose beautiful undead friends want to eat her, and it’s just SO TRAGIC so they have to go through thick and thin and blood and beautiful people wearing a lot of black velvet and undead versus mortal and GOD I HATE IT ALREADY, and that’s just the summary in the jacket sleeve. I’m sorry, I think some fiend who can’t even spell her name right (Stephenie? Really?) got posessed by the evil spirits of both still-living (the irony, since it’s a book about fucking vampires) Nicholas Sparks and Anne Rice and somehow the two merged together to produce and entirely unholy monster that is trying to take the throne from my beloved BOY WHO LIVED. Lived. As in not a vampire. Fuck.Ing.Hell.
And it isn’t even as though Harry Potter is some paean who will remain untouched in the bowels of this blog. Believe me, I have much to complain about when it comes to that Boy Who Lived, and He Who Must Not Be Named, and so on and so forth. So when something comes along and insults something that I already enjoy insulting, that insults me. Nothing comes close to the ridiculous nature of Harry Potter and no romance novel thinly disguised as a serious love story will EVER reach the pedestal upon which I have placed that stupid boy with his stupid scar. Ugh.
Okay. Also. I’ve heard a lot of hype about this book. A lot. I have not heard one single itty bitty miniscule utterance mentioning the quality of Meyer’s work. No one is over the moon about her narrative tone. No one has compared her themes to Shakespeare or Dickens or other people who are supposed to be good with themes. It’s all about Edward and Bella. Eeeedward and Bellllla, please someone bring me a trashcan so I can expel my lunch. So. Gross.
And another thing. Can we, as a society of semi-intelligent people, please stop perpetuating an ideal of love and romance that is so untrue it drives the female half of our population crazy because they can’t achieve it? I managed to get over the idea of love that I absorbed from countless Disney films, I don’t need another blockbuster brand to try to sweep me off my feet again and then drop me in a pile of trash, because that’s all you’ll get if you try to find the kind love that Twilight is perpetuating. It. Is. Not. Real. So now women are desperately trying to find their Edwards and men are quickly growing more and more single as the women they’re with realize that they’ll never be Edward. Because there is no Edward.
I don’t care if it has Robert Pattinson or beautiful velvet-clad vampires, Twilight makes me sick. Sick.
The next book that thinks it can displace Harry Potter from his position on high better at least have a better plot than sweet sappy forbidden romance. Gag me.