I have never read the Twilight books, nor seen either of the Twilight films. It’s very likely that I never will. They look shite, and there are much better vampire-things out there to wrestle with my attention. In fact, I’ve avoided 100% of the new ‘Paranormal Romance’ section that’s sprung up in Borders surrounding the success of it all. (A section of the bookshop which translates ‘Paranormal Romance’ as ‘Sexy Vampires’, as opposed to a ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ sort of thing).
However, because it’s popular at the moment, I’m going to write about it anyway. Current affairs and all that. I’m nothing if not incredibly shallow and attention-seeking. Except, rather than focus on my thoughts about the whole sparkly-vampire phenomenon, which are based solely on my hatred of other people enjoying things, I will instead talk about some complete and utter lies I told to a co-worker about the series of books that gave millions of pointless teenage girls a reason to live.
See, this particular co-worker can be a bit reactionary when it comes to…anything. She is also quite protective over her teenage daughter. So, when she mentioned that her teenage daughter had just started to read the Twilight saga, I couldn’t help but play it up a bit. Basically, I asked her if she knew that the Twilight books were full of sex, violence, drugs and an unhealthy amount of werewolf rape, and whether she thought that was a suitable thing for her daughter to be reading.
She, somewhat unsurprisingly, didn’t think it was. Her following reaction was quite good.
In one swift movement, she had her teenage daughter on the phone and was beguiling her for reading such disgusting filth. The daughter, understandably confused by it but clearly also terrified, decided to apologise before questioning it or explaining herself and the phone was slammed down.
As far as I know, she’s never been allowed to read any further.
At the time, I wasn’t aware that the third book in the series actually had some of these themes in. I thought the whole thing was about a sparkly nonce who lived in a tree, representing the hell out of some Mormon woman’s repressed sexuality, not a girls stomach being ripped open so she can give birth. Or something.
I am glad, though, that I managed to ruin a strangers enjoyment of a book with my fabricated lies. Especially if it means that a little bit less merchandise was sold featuring that bloke who looks exactly like a foot.
Like
