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'.