The inconsistent, contradictory ramblings of Scarlett the Harlot

Dear Robert Pattinson (RPatz to your fans):

Full disclosure, I've started this letter off at least three times in my head and each time it began "I hate your stinking guts" or "you make me vomit" or thereabouts. But I realized maybe I was being a little unfair and decided to reign in my particular brand of raging sewer harpy. I started thinking about exactly why you make my teeth itch, that's adult, right? I mean, sure, you don't bathe. You do look like an furry-headed candy corn (cause you're head's all triangular). And your overall, broody brand of emo-surliness does not a good actor make. 

But none of these things are really your fault.

Except the not bathing thing. Dude, you've got to see to that. Even the cro-mag male beat his fur against a rock. Maybe you could...with your head... okay, okay, I can see how that would be bad.

I digress. None of these things are the "really real" reason, as my eleven-year-old cousin would say I can't stand you. The really real reason is simple: Twilight. Fucking Twilight. Dude, you were completely forgettable to anybody but the Harry Potter fans after the twenty minutes you were in that universe, but did you have to sign on for Twilight?

And there again, I can see how it arguably wasn't your fault. Back when it was just the first book and maybe New Moon, nobody really understood what a scourge on the earth phenomena Twilight was going to turn into. Sure, it had it's fans. But then, Harry Potter had fans. They weren't cutting themselves over Rupert Grint's pubic hairs or anything. So you signed on for three movies. I don't blame you. You're a "strapping lad", as the Brits say. I can use English slang, I read Dickens. You saw Kristen Bell and went "wow, she's hot", or, you know, however you guys say it. Probably has a word like "shag" or "knackered" in it.

But there were still those damn fans.

Those...whatdoyoucallem. Twihards. Hormonal bacchae, if you will. Willing to tear you limb from limb just to hear the sound of your voice, to steal the lisp from your lips, to catch a glimpse of your manly collarbones of truth--well you get the picture. I mean them's some scary bitches. And I know from scary bitches. I was thirteen once. I had my own crushes. I would cut a bitch over Isaac Hanson. True story. Of course, you never saw me making an entire family schlep to wherever the hell Hanson's from just so I could breathe the air of Oklahoma City or whatever (I have no idea how I pulled that city out of my ass to this day). But those freaks of nature Twihards are a different breed, man. They'll make their families go to Forks, WA for a family vacation and not think twice.

Want to know what's in Forks? 

A shrine to Twilight.

And a zillion girls all worshiping at the altar of Edward Cullen and throwing out random Wuthering Heights quotes completely out of context. Not, you know, real Wuthering Heights quotes because that book is actual literature and while it's also badly written, it's badly written for a Victorian novel which means it's scads more intelligent than Stephanie Meyer will ever hope to be. So they quote Wuthering Heights as it was quoted to them in Twilight and have no idea that Heathcliffe was the original emo asshole.

I guess what I'm saying Edward Robert, is that I think I get you now. If I were you and I'd suddenly stepped into a cult phenomena that nobody really saw coming and I didn't necessarily wish on myself and while I didn't mind being a hearthrob in theory (because I'm a guy) I'd want to be a hearthrob for me, and not for, you know, a 109 year-old sparkly-vampire-virgin who is completely safe and will cuddle and kiss and pet and hold a girl for months but never, you know, try to stick it in because the peen is evil, I'd probably stop bathing too. I'd do exactly what you're doing. I'd call the writer of the series a bat-shit soccer mom MORMON who basically fanficced herself and tried to touch me inappropriately in the bathroom (not that you did that last bit, I'm just offering a suggestion). Like an abuse victim I'd try to appear unattractive so no one would want me and I too would fade into the wood work. I'd probably go Ancient Greek on their asses, shave my head, dress in sack cloth, and smear my face with ashes lamenting the sad state of...I don't know, something important. I'd become a sculptor wherein I collected different kinds of poo from varying species and unveiled these specimens at a chic gallery in SoHo and call it "Abstinence Means Doing Anal". 

In short, RPatz, I'd make a point to very publicly loose my shit.

Pretty much what you're doing, only quicker and on a bigger scale.

So I'll close by saying I think I know where you're coming from a little bit. I have no idea if I'm right or not. But I feel for you man. 

My condolences,
Scarlett the Harlot

PS: did you know there's a Twilight dildo? I know where you can get some sack cloth for cheap. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

Dear Gloom Cookies of America:

Congratulations, today is most definitely your day! After years of searching, of moaning, of complaining that no one really understands the darkness and pain in your soul, finally, finally all of your black lace tinted dreams come true. Today, today, Twilight is wide released in theatres.

I'm so excited for each and every one of your bloody hearts! I mean, who would have thought that your secret yearnings and fantasies would ever be understood by another? But wait, there was Stephanie Meyer, a thirty-five-year-old married, Mormon mother of three who understood your pain and struggle. Yes, she had the same dream. And she was haunted by this dream, young ones. She knew she had to set it to paper because it was a beautiful dream full of darkness and light and lions and lambs and the power of good over evil. Also, there was glitter in her dream, but it was the glitter of skin so it wasn't stupid glitter or anything, it was sexy glitter.

Stephanie Meyer worked hard to translate her dream to a language mere mortals could understand. She somehow managed to bottle all your most secret fantasies and use this ephemeral liquid as ink and that ink managed to grace the pages of not one, not two, not three, but four books! Stephanie Meyer knew she could not rest until her story was told. And now, in the same year that you've seen her vision to it's startling conclusion, you're going to actually see her vision on the big screen! You must be so excited. I know I'm excited for you because there's never very much excitement in the life of a goth kid. So lick it up, babies, lick it up.

I remember back when I was your age (roughly between the ages of eleven and eighteen, some of you are much older but I won't tell! It was a lot harder to dress the part, let me tell you. There wasn't a Hot Topic in every mall just dripping with merchandise. I know, right? And the Hot Topics we had access to weren't all ironical and full to the gills of Invader ZIM and Nightmare Before Christmas and Ruby Gloom and Lenore and what not. I mean, sure, we had access to those things but we had to go to this place called a comic shop.

Also, it was a lot harder to be a goth. You had to feel it. You had to smoke. You had to be willing to risk derision from the entire student body. You had to perfect the ironic stare. You had to be willing to not wash your hair for weeks, or make an entire outfit completely out of ripped up tee shirts, or special order your vampire fangs. You couldn't just, you know, go to the mall.

You had to know how to sew and you had to know your way around a package of RIT dye, let me tell you.

Actually know, let me tell you. Do you have any idea how many of my dresses and frilly girly christmas presents from grandma I had to put through the washer with dye? Huh?

Our parents were not accepting of our "life style choice". Fuck that. They called us freaks to our faces and begged us to put on the Laura Ashley and turn off the Misfits. We peirced ourselves. With safety pins that we put over a BIC lighter first. If we got tattoos it was because had fake ids. Not fake tattoos.

But don't think this is the bitter rambling of a used-to-be-fad-girl to a bunch of consumer monkeys. Oh no. I freely admit I'm jealous. You guys have it so much easier! You don't have to actually read Billy Shakespeare anymore. You can just go to Barnes and Noble and pick up the "Quote a Day: Bard Calendar" instead. And forget reading Marlowe or the Marquis de Sade! You don't have to! You can just rent Quills.

No, I would kill to be one of you. It's so much easier to simply buy what people tell me instead of thinking for myself. I mean, it was so hard to find music I wanted to listen to that really seemed to drip the right amount of blackness and death back then. But now you've got nu metal and Ozzie's touring again, so there you go! I mean, you can buy you're own pre-ripped fishnet clothes! Do you know how hard it was painstakingly ripping ours so it looked artful? Now you don't even have to do that!

AND you don't even have to think about what kind of goth you are! You can just buy the tee shirt that says it! Or not, you can just pick up a little black crying My Little Pony tee shirt with words like "I has a sad" printed underneath it in glitter!

And you don't have to worry about the fake ids because Hot Topic sells faux peircings now too!

God, I'm so jealous.

Anyway, this is just a little note to remind you kids to be careful tonight on your special premiere night. It's like a Merry ChrisKwanUkkah for you, isn't it? Well, enjoy Twilight and I'm glad someone truly understands you. Now go have a party in a graveyard and don't forget your steaming cups of chai tea or whatever it is you kids are drinking now. Enjoy your Evenescence and I know I don't have to worry about telling you not to drink or smoke--you're so socially aware I know you won't.

Lots of love,
Scarlett