Blah blah blah victim fantasies, blah blah blah stalking, blah blah blah my boyfriend just looked at my carotid artery like it was a Tobasco Flavored Slim Jim. Content sigh.
Unfortunately, every time I walk past the "Twilight" altar in my local book store, I find myself holding book two, "New Moon," in my stupid little hand. The cover is very aesthetically appealing. That glossy black, with a stark bloody flower. The novel is a good weight, a weight that says "there is a story in here," but neglects to add "but Stephenie Meyer is going to break that story by making flat, shallow characters, and by replacing plot lines with 322 ways to describe the color of a handsome vampire's eyeballs."
I should admit on this page of the Internet that I am, right now, listening to the "New Moon" soundtrack. But only for research purposes for this post. And because I like Lykke Li, Thom Yorke, and The Killers.
So the trailers for the second movie are killing me. I love the fanfare of a trailer. Any trailer. All drums and chase scenes and longing glances ... and, in this case, a wolf man. If I had no working knowledge of anything involving bedazzled Robert Smith wannabes, and someone dropped me from Mars and directly into a Cineplex, the trailer for "New Moon" would be incredibly appealing. Sure, it has its "Teen Wolf: 2" moments, but I've never let a little hokey pokey stop me from buying 8 pounds of popcorn, a jumbo vat of nacho cheese and a blue raspberry Slurpee.
This is all just to say that I'm afraid I'm going to probably read "New Moon." And then I'm probably going to go to "New Moon."
Here is my justification:
1) I like to know what the kids are Tweetin' about;
2) I'm never more alive than when I truly, truly hate something.