Healing America's Vampire Heart

Is it weird how invested I am in the outcome of the current Pattison/Stewart debacle?  Yes, it is, so let me rephrase that:

I am uncomfortable with how weirdly invested I am with the outcome of the current Pattison/Stewart debacle.

Now, when I say “weirdly invested” I mean that I read the magazine covers in the grocery checkout, but that’s still a pretty big deal for me.  I think the reason is that I found Pattison and by extension Stewart a little more sympathetic than other celebrities.  Why, you ask, would I relate to these milk-skinned, polygon-faced waifs, aside from the fact that I am almost as pretty as they are?  Well, it comes down to quotes like this, from a Pattison interview:

“When I read it I was convinced Stephenie was convinced she was Bella and it was like it was a book that wasn’t supposed to be published. It was like reading her sexual fantasy, especially when she said it was based on a dream and it was like, ‘Oh I’ve had this dream about this really sexy guy,’ and she just writes this book about it. Like some things about Edward are so specific, I was just convinced, like, ‘This woman is mad. She’s completely mad and she’s in love with her own fictional creation.’ And sometimes you would feel uncomfortable reading this thing.”

So that is something important that I have in common with Pattison and, as I understand, Stewart as well: I find Twilight deeply, deeply troubling.  These two were also kind of creeped out by Twilight, but were dragged into its glinting celibate heart, and that spoke to me.  And I thought maybe something good could come of this whole 5-film baby-marrying virgin-stalking clusterspoon: maybe these two crazy kids could find love in a stupid place.  And if they did, maybe the rest of us could, too.

And then K-Stew boned the esteemed director of Snow White and the Huntsman and some commercials for Halo 3: ODST.  The fact that Ms. Stewart surveyed the set and deemed this fossilized turd to be an acceptable mate is itself puzzling. (Chris Hemsworth is right there, you nitwit.)  Sanders cast his supermodel wife as Stewart’s mother in the film, which suggests a level of psychosexual investment in his art almost as blatant as Stephenie Meyer’s.

Which brings me to my plan.

We can fix this.  K-Stew, R-Patz, we can make this better.  We can save your marriage and mend the fissure in America’s twinkling, diamond-hard vampire heart.

This is how it goes down:

The two young lovers stand in a wood.  “You don’t have to do this,” says Kristen, but she’s lying and she knows it, she knows this is the only way they can make right what she’s done.  That’s the cruelest part.  As terrible as this will be for Robert, Kristen knows that everything that must transpire is her fault, and she will carry that knowledge to the grave.

Robert clutches her hands.  He’s trying to be brave.  He kisses her, gently, on the cheek; she’s crying but he says nothing.  Instead he turns from her, and strips naked, and takes a bag of glitter and just showers in it.  It gets everywhere.  I mean everywhere.  Use your imagination.

And then naked, shining like a god, he enters the sunlight field where Stephenie Meyer waits.

Perhaps Stephenie Meyer is naked.  Maybe she is wearing some of that special Mormon underwear because I’m told that’s a thing?  Maybe a grasshopper lands on her butt for a second and then it jumps off, I dunno, they’re in a field.  Robert Pattison studies her brown eyes, her pale skin, her lips too full for her jawline and her heart-shaped face (these are descriptions of Bella Swann from the first Twilight book?)

Robert Pattison is weeping.

“Edward,” Stephenie says.  “Edward.  You can’t know how long I’ve waited.”

He flips her over, with some effort, and it begins.  They make love for hours, cartilaginous abdominals scraping against rolls of fat until everything is red and raw.  Fluids mix with the glitter, run from their bodies, pool in the dirt in little glittery mud puddles.

Robert Pattison does not stop crying.  Occasionally he looks away from this incestuous union of author and creation, this ungodly consummation; through his tears he sees Kristen, watching at the edge of the field.  Kristen is crying.  Somewhere Rubert Sanders is in a bar watching a live broadcast of this and he’s crying.  Stephenie Meyer was into it for a while but now she’s crying.  Everyone is crying.  Even me.  Even you.

Then, and only then, the healing can begin.

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