The Devil Made Me Do It!

Ok, ladies and germs, I have a confession to make. After wondering what all the hype was about, especially after being lured in by my cyber-friend June Cleaver After A Six-Pack, I picked this up from the library on Friday, sometime around 3:30pm.
I had just finished What Is The What?, an excruciatingly intense story of one of the Lost Boys of Sudan and needed to do a 180-degree turn.

Careful what you wish for.

Can I just say that the most damning thing that can be told to a girl seems to be, "Edward Cullen is staring at you."
And before I go any further, June Cleaver, stay with me through this whole post and hear me out, sistah!

Now... let's get started.

First, Edward, darling. You are just over 100 years old. Quit hanging around the high school trying to pick up a 17-year-old girl from a broken home who's new in town, you dirty old man. And for that matter, lurking outside of said girl's bedroom window all night is grounds for getting shot by her police chief Dad. Stalking is creepy at any age. No wonder you're lurking around this girl's place. Any grown woman would have you slapped with a restraining order and would sleep with a Taser under her pillow.

That said, how about someone closer to your own age? You might be interested to know that a girl learns a few things over oh, say, twenty years that a dirty old man like you might enjoy.

But I digress.

Second, Bella. Listen, sweetie. Most importantly, if a guy tells you that he fell for you because of your smell.... uhhhh, yeah, can we really look at that one in the Bright Light of Normal? Also, we all like to think we can tame the Bad Boy, that that makes us special somehow.

But let me tell ya something, honey. You either won't or will get the job done. Neither works out well. And either way, you have to figure out how to lose the superhuman bloodthirsty guy outside of your bedroom window. And don't get me wrong. I get the whole thrill-of-dating-someone-I'm-not-supposed-to thing. Every gal does. But then something happens -- we grow up.

Now, Edward, if you would like to see what I keep under my pillow, well... no wait, go away, you creepy old man.....

Shame on me you.

Hey, I said stop doing that. You're distracting me. You bad, bad man.

Finally, Stephenie Meyer. Holy cow, dear. You struck paydirt. But how? You're no J.K. Rowling and you're certainly no Joss Whedon (oh Buffy, didn't we have fun?). Every character was a well-worn archtype. The plot was painfully predictable. You go pages and pages and pages of nothing happening, just talking. For God's sake, I get it! -- he's moody and broody and seething with sex and death -- get on with it already! And then when something does (finally!) happen, it's overwhelmingly obvious what exactly it will be. Cash those checks, my friend. Good on ya for sitting down at a typewriter in the first place and getting hit by this kind of publishing lightening. Just promise me one thing? When you finish this series, promise me that you will never again touch a keyboard of any kind. Don't even text-message.

That sweater looks itchy... want some help with that?

Oh, and one more thing Edward. If you so painfully want this girl, yet still manage to go through three more books without laying one single unchaste hand on her, you are not a vampire. You are gay. (notthatthere'sanythingwrongwiththat!)

Sigh.

Ok, then. A few more confessions. What the hell -- it's a fairly anonymous blog.

I got the book on Friday afternoon. I finished it on Sunday afternoon. 500 pages in 48 hours.

(and for the record, Bella, you might have a barely-bridled demon for a boyfriend, but I have a fully-unleashed saint for a husband)

I have the second book on my request list at the library. (none of these books on are on any shelves in the city -- they are all in circulation) I will shamelessly put the other two on there, as well.

I have the movie on my Netflix reserve queue. And I know that whenever it comes out, that I'll pop it up to the front of the line. Cursing myself the whole time.

I don't understand it. I don't want to understand it. I just want to enjoy it, scolding myself the whole time.

So until we meet again, Edward, there is something I just have to finally reconcile with myself:

I am such a chick.