Let me tell you what I have against this movie. It’s making vampires “popular”.
Full disclosure: I’m a geek. I don’t wear it proudly, per se, but I don’t deny it. I never wore a pocket protector, and among my friends I was the most comfortable talking to girls. But I suck horribly at sports (martial arts excluded), and have always had a predilection for using words like, well, predilection. Once or twice I have been accused of rolling dice.
I liked mythology as a kid. Still do. And so along with the Greek and Norse pantheons, I also knew about Vampires. And werewolves. And dragons. And elves. And do you think I ran around talking about them? Do you think I read books about them in school, or bought folders that had them on the cover?
It was a dark secret. Like masturbation was during the 50s, or watching porn before the internet. Even if you did it, you never talked about it. You couldn’t talk about it.
But now, the cool kids are watching vampire movies. The popular people. The trendsetters.
No. I simply won’t stand for it.
Fuck you people. You’re pretty. You’re popular. You lost your virginity in 8th grade, and you didn’t have to take your cousin to prom. If I’d been caught reading Brahm Stoker’s Dracula, I’d have gotten a wedgie. But you read some Dan Steele infused necrophiliac babysitter’s club fantasy and claim it’s in vogue. Damn you to hell.
I didn’t draw the g-damned line, but I stood on my side of it. The Vampires didn’t love people, they freaking BIT THEM. So did the damn werewolves. Which, by the way, never bothered fighting the vampires because who gave a shit, they were werewolves. And the elves were awesome because they were elves, not because they were Orlando Bloom. You had your sex life, I had my books, and we knew where everybody stood.
But no. Now, you pervert my secret love. You take this thing, these stories, these myths. You apply your damned Gilmore Girls soap opera plots to them and call them your own. It’s Dawson’s Fucking Creek with vampires, and now suddenly that’s ok. Well it’s not ok. Not unless you retroactively start dating me instead of the varsity jock boyfriend you had in 10th grade.
Of course it’s been pointed out to me that I want my wife to read these things. Precisely because they’re Dan Steele infused necrophiliac babysitter’s club fantasy. And aside from the necrophiliac part, I find that a compelling argument. I’m considering buying her the first one for Hannukah.
But I’ll still force her to hide it out of sight when there are people around. That’s the price of admission, and all the true blood-drinking fans paid it back in the day.