I should have never said I would never read the Twilight saga. That's an automatic default into a full-blown obsession with the series. You know, the one about the vampire who falls in love with a human. LUDICROUS, I'm aware, thanks. I'm writing about my recent infatuation with all things Twilight-related on the blog even though it's in no way related to Memphis or New York, my levels of poverty, or the furthering of my career. Rather, I'm atoning for my regression into advanced preteen lust and the remorse I should feel about reading all FOUR books in 8 days. (And frankly, it's an excuse to post the gratuitous photo below; I have a thing for boys in eyewear.) Yep, I'm done. If you tried calling me in that week-plus stretch and you got my voicemail, chances are I was huddled in bed reading the young adult series that I as a 13-year-old would not have even read.
Like most who succumb to an addiction or deal with dependency issues, I set some minor rules for myself to maintain a semblance of dignity. I was not going to read the books on the subway. How many times had I seen an older women reading them in FULL VIEW of everyone?!?! Too many. My prideful stipulation didn't last long: I took the book jacket off and shoved the hardbacks into my tote so I could still read but none of my fellow-commuters could judge me for the title.
Damn you, Stephenie Meyer, former Mormon housewife who now makes millions of dollars preying on my feminine vulnerabilities. To you, I shake my fist. I have surrendered to what is essentially emotional pornography. I have no one to blame but myself. Next thing you know, I'll be tearing up over the Gerber baby and picking out china patterns.
And if you will excuse me, I have to finish the partially written, leaked fifth book that's only found on the author's website and maybe print out some pictures for my cubicle at work.
