I’d drink my own blood before writing about Twilight
I have long resisted writing about Twilight.
As children and adults across the world scrambled to hoard Robert Pattinson posters and glow-in-the-dark vampire soaps, I averted my eyes – lest I became a motionless pillar of salt.
Every time you mention Twilight, a puppy kills a fairy and then runs into oncoming traffic. It’s akin to uttering the word “Sandilands”, which I am told is either a kind of small crustacean found in less than two per cent of the world’s oceans – or a range of designer doorbell tones.
Even mouthing the word “Twilight” is likened to flinging snow at a snowman.
As you desperately back away, eyes brimming with horror, the ever-expanding snowman laughs and laughs and laughs before poking you in the eye with its stick arm.
Writing about Twilight in any form – be it praise or criticism – is like hurling staples at a giant, rampaging magnet, only to watch it become a pointy-ended staple God and crush entire cities underfoot with gleeful abandon.
And so, I held my tongue. Even as teenage girls purchased – with real money – Taylor Lautner-shaped body pillows, I held firm.
But even those who remain devoted to not acknowledging Twilight are beginning to weary.
Nothing that could be said hasn’t already been said. And still, so much of that should be said again and again until the cosmos cries out in pain and the skies turn a bland shade of beige.
But I won’t give in. I refuse to write about Twilight.
I would rather wake up in a bath tub of ice, surrounded by squirrels in lab coats holding safety scissors and crayons than type a single reference to sparkly vampires.
I would prefer to be forced into a gladiatorial-style battle to the death with the entire cast of According to Jim than scribble a single sentence about Jacob’s abs.
I would rather be in Twilight - re-enacting every scene and passionately delivering every line of stilted dialogue – than commit a description of any exchange between characters to print.
That’s how determined I am to never, ever mention Stephenie Meyer’s horrid series or, indeed, include her name in a written piece.
One day, when the survivors sit around their shanty towns and cling to the memory of a world before Twilight, my name will be passed around in whispers.
“He never relented,” they will say, as they gingerly sip Kristen Stewart-themed bottled water. “He stayed strong and true.”
And they’ll look out to the horizon and wonder if the legends were really true. Was there really a man who dared not write about that which everyone else wrote about? Could it be that he resisted the urge to crudely carve even a tiny reference to that baseball scene behind a urinal somewhere?
One day, they will discover a modest headstone in a village in France inscribed (at my request) with the words: “Here lies the man who never wrote about Twilight.”
I would rather use the word Twilight 12 times in a column about how I’ll never write about Twilight, than write about Twilight.
That, my friends, is how determined I am to never write about Twilight.
Read all about it
Up to the minute Twitter chatter
The latest and greatest
Good morning Punchers. After four years of excellent fun and great conversation, this is the final post…
I have had some close calls, one that involved what looked to me like an AK47 pointed my way, followed…
In a world in which there are still people who subscribe to the vile notion that certain victims of sexual…