Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that whenever something becomes hugely popular, will also become the object of ire and disdain by some solely for the sake of being contrarian. Twilight, a young-adult “vampire-romance” (is that a subgenre now, Wikipedia?) novel written by Stephenie Meyer, is widely adored by 13-year-old girls and 40-year-old housewives nationwide, yet reviled Internet book-critics. Why all the hate?

From what I've gleaned from friends and various Internet forums (mainly Reddit), the consensus boils down to the following points:

1. It gives young, impressionable girls unrealistic expectations of sexual relationships;

2. It is poorly written;

3. It depicts vampires in an unrealistic manner;

4. It turned my girlfriend/wife/SO into a vampire-loving whore, and I am now being compared to Edward Cullen at every turn;

5. And finally, the fanbase is largely pants-on-head retarded.

To which I say...

1. Disney has been doing it for eighty-seven years, and nobody bitches about how The Little Mermaid curtails female independence.

2. This remains to be seen, but in my experience most young-adult novels aren't beacons of literary excellence.

3. As there are no historical records of vampires in existence, this particular point of criticism is void. Alternatively, would you prefer every literary trope to remain static and unchanging?*

4. Why blame Ms. Meyer for the failings of your own relationship?

5. You could look at anything that is widely popular and find equally stupid fans, and the converse is also true. Not everyone who plays Dungeons & Dragons lives in their parents' basement, not ever pro-footballer runs a dog-fighting ring, and not every Twilight fan prefers the warm (cold?) embrace of an imaginary vampire over that of their real-life partner.

In an attempt to evaluate whether Twilight really is the literary abomination that so many claim it to be, my plan is as follows: I will read several chapters of the book every day, and blog about my experiences here. Friends have questioned my sanity in my decision to embark upon my quest, but my reasons for doing so are twofold. Firstly, as an English minor the idea that a mere book is capable of kindling such vitriol is rather curious to myself. Secondly, written anything solely for the sake of just writing for a very long time.

And thus, my very own “Twilight Saga” saga begins.

*Take high fantasy, for example. Ever since Mr. Tolkien brought Middle Earth to life, elves have possessed an ethereal beauty and excelled at ranged combat. Dwarves have lived underground, were fierce warriors, and master smiths. Orcs were evil and uncivilized. After reading about the elven scout Dal'Shirai gracefully swing down from an oak branch while her long, flaxen hair trails languidly behind her for the fifteenth time, one is ready for some change (I'm looking at you, Bioware).

Maladroit terrapin

It has been said that Chuck Norris, in his infinite wisdom, once had an awkward moment just to know what it felt like.

Said moments appear to be happening to me at a rather frequent rate as of late. For example...

Scene one. A couple weeks ago, me and my mates were volunteering for the Richmond Center for Disability. Prior to that, we'd taken a course on sensitivity training. What to say, what not to say; common sense stuff, really. Then, during an activity involving compasses and bags of eggs, Friend A says something, and Friend B responds with this gem:

That's so retarded.

He realizes his faux pas a second later. Cue three Asian guys staring at each other in horror. Volunteer C is staring at us with murder in her eyes. The...uh...offended demographic continues searching for eggs. I guess we were lucky nobody was really paying attention to our shenanigans.

Scene two. Me and my (different) mates (I've been saying mates a lot lately; I'm using it ironically so it's not like I'm a hipster or anything) are just hanging out, discussing the meaning of life, typical post-adolescent shit. The topic turns to relationships. Someone says something along the lines of "everybody being in a relationship nowadays", and I make an off-handed remark in the vein of "maybe I should see about getting one myself, nudge wink say no more". The topic immediately turns to...

What kind of girls do Vass (me) like?!? My face: D:<

I mean, it's not as if I can bring my real fetishes out now, right?

Moving right along...

I don't think I can look at a chicken wing for another week or so. Or a piece of sushi, for that matter. I learned a valuable lesson yesterday, after AYCE dinner with my mates on the eve of Stamkos' future wife's wisdom teeth extraction. And that is: never go to AYCE with Asian girls, they eat like chipmunks and the menfolk are stuck with the task of finishing up the leftover food. Oh, and when playing a game where you name car manufacturers alphabetically, "Mazda" is not a suitable answer if you're going first.

Actually, I'm hungry now. I could go for some...wings.

I think I should cut this post short, it's 5am and I'm just rambling. It's like I'm writing stream of consciousness or something. Like James Joyce. With less fucking the farts out of...nevermind.

p.s. girls are so forward these days! The other day I was on the Skytrain with a friend of mine and this girl, out of the blue, asks my friend: "Where'd you get that backpack? I'm going on a backpacking trip to somewhere and I'm looking for something similar and something something..." I stopped paying attention there. Point is, the question was just...random. No lead-in, no introduction, nothing. And after he answered the question the girl didn't even take the conversation anywhere. She just stopped talking, leaving friend and me...well, talking about backpacks. Maybe she just really sucks at hitting on guys, or something.

p.p.s. I've only just realized that Weezer's Pinkerton album is chock full of references to Puccini's Madama Butterfly, which I saw at the QE Theatre this past Tuesday (I guess I am a hipster, after all). The album name itself, "listening to Cio-Cio-San" (El Scorcho), the closing song ("I told you I would return when the Robin makes his nest), etc. Gosh, no wonder this album sold terribly in America. Nation of Philistines, the lot of 'em.

Go web!

So I woke up this morning (not feeling particularly like P. Diddy) and there's a fucking spider on my wall.

It wasn't one of those small, harmless ones either. This fucker was larger than my thumbnail. So what do I do?

I didn't want to squish it, as that would leave an unsightly stain on my wall. So I hit upon the idea of scooping the spider up gently with a piece of paper and flinging it outside. Unfortunately the spider had other plans.

As soon as the paper touched the spider it immediately fell off the wall onto the carpet. Which was brown. Like the spider.

So now I have a spider lurking about in my room. FML.