‘Twilight’ sucks, and I don’t mean blood

Speaking as an individual who has read all of the Twilight books, (okay, I confess, I skimmed the last two), I feel fairly well-qualified to raise my pen in defense of those on my side of that white picket, twilit fence.

Oh, censorious and groundlessly outraged faithful public of Twilight! Quell your heart-wrenching cries! One article railing against your beloved fantasy will not make even the suggestion of a dent in its popularity. So sit tight and give it a read. Or don’t. Either way, don’t get your panties in a bunch, kids.

My initial response to the sad little shells of characters that meander listlessly through Stephenie Meyer’s plot was one of condescending and bored amusement. I find Bella trite, and Edward overbearing. Jacob was endearing—just as he was meant to be.

The ever-tortured lover thrust to the sidelines by cruel fate. I do apologize. You’ll excuse me if my gag reflex was just triggered.

I digress. My propensity for hand-over-fist insulting these essentially anthropomorphized and one-dimensional rocks of characters has won out at the moment. I should move on to the larger literary fish I need to fry.

It is a popular outraged feminist allegation that Bella represents exactly the cookie-cutter, pearl-wearing, martini-shaking, honey-I’m-home-greeting façade women have been struggling to shed since 1950.

Even the description of her physical appearance in the book remains vaguely outlined in brown and beige.

This tidbit may seem inconsequential to say the least; however, it is indicative of a character papier-mâchéd into being.

Bella is rarely given shape in the form of action or appearance, and her actions don’t make up for this discrepancy.

She is continually acted upon by outside force, wherein her supposed personality is revealed by her reactions. Her initial move to Forks is instigated by her parents. Her friendship with Jacob, though supposedly in rebellion of the social norms of the town, is a natural alliance in view of her father’s connection with Jacob’s grandfather. Even her ridiculously petulant and infantile attempts to risk her life in “New Moon” are a reaction to her obsession with her absent boyfriend.

Bella the individual is a collage of male interactions and power struggles. The only thing she seems to be able to desire for herself is this fantastic beast of a boy. Heaven forbid a little girlie would have a hobby aside from a frustrated walk in the woods here and there or cooking for Daddy Dearest.

No drive. No ambition. No interest. No objective. This poor character is a crippled, soulless ghost wheezed into being with refracted light and construction paper.

It is emphasized again and again how awed she is by her inhuman paramour’s evident and overwhelming beauty.

Repeatedly, the silly chit bemoans her sorry mortal fate and asks how such a perfection as her harmless blood-sucking boy-friend could love such a one as she.

Again, I find myself in danger of losing my lunch to this debacle of human, and as the case may be, inhuman representation.

Well, Bella, darlin’, I, for one, am pretty darn sure it is not your charming witticisms and intellectual banter that keeps your ethereal playmate playing.

This then begs the question: what exactly is it that holds this marzipan romance together? It can’t be egg whites, since Edward can’t eat, but apparently takes a sick satisfaction in watching Bella do so.

The only explanation proffered by Meyer is true love. Undeniable and whirlwind, this true love is a confection of snowy white bliss, conveying lovers over mountains and gullies alike, swiftly ferrying them across moonlit seas of briny green.

So powder your nose, sweetheart, and beg him to share his immortal curse with your gooey little eyes staring up at him always. Undeniably appetizing, isn’t it?

Ladies! Please! Where is your shrieking indignation?

This tepid, love-sick, will-less, female automaton is becoming an icon, a warped paragon of femininity.

Twelve-year-old girls are sitting at home pining away after their larger-than-life, true-love (as beautiful and tortured as possible, please, and a side of fries would be great), vampire boy-friend.

My advice to these girls is to take out an ad in the wanted pages. There’s just as much luck to be had there as waiting on the real thing from the lofty heights of a castle in the clouds.

So, thanks, Twilight. What would we do if we didn’t have Bella to blaze the trail of happiness through delusion for us? We may never have ever realized our potential to follow our men to the ends of the earth for no apparent reason.

All sarcasm aside, I unapologetically assert that this gaseous delusion promises to metastasize in the shape of a Xanax script and hopefully an expensive bottle of booze, at least for me.

Cheers girls, I’ll be seeing you, when you come to your senses, on the other side of that infamous white picket fence.