Sparkling is Sexy

Twilight.

Oh, I can just feel my heart beat and my lungs constrict whenever I see the barest hint of that ivory-skinned, stone-built, ethereal and dream-like being known as every girl’s inner fantasy.

Just like I can’t help daydreams popping into my mind and let myself be swallowed up by the entirety of what is and will always be ‘Edward Cullen.’

Not.

Just pretending that I even care a bit whatsoever for that so called ‘gorgeous vampire’ makes me gag, as in bile rising in my throat and a burning fire making its way down my entire being. I am totally serious.

Maybe there was a time when I found the whole ‘Twilight’ scenario pretty enthralling and had to have my mom practically yank me from my bed to come eat breakfast instead of stay basking in the sweet glory of what was once the amazing Twilight book series. And it still is. Book-wise, I mean.

The thing is, now that they decided to make a movie for the less literate sort, instead of having regular fans that praise its awesomeness every once in a while, there’s a stampede of annoyingly frilly teenage girls shrieking their guts out for a guy that drinks blood and werewolf that smells like expired goat cheese and BO. Yeah, I understand the attraction.

Okay, maybe I am being a bit judgmental, considering the exact same thing happened with Harry Potter, but the people that transformed that book into a movie actually had some freaking taste.

Harry Potter is one of those cases in which both the movie and the books are truly amazing and perfectly in seem with each other.

Was it so hard for the twilight directors to make an effort and make at least a moderately good film?

Since when is an over-dramatic script with a girl that has to ask her own boyfriend in this husky, pleading (“Oh, it breaks my heart. Sigh.”) voice to, “Just one question. Kiss me?” Well. We know the world has come to an end when a girl has to ask her own boyfriend to give her a kiss on her birthday.

What about the fact that the guy sparkles in the sun? In the book they make it seem as if this powerful aura wraps him in its brightness and builds around him like a bright, vivid display of his pure power. In the movie, all they can manage is to sprinkle an overboard amount of store-bought glitter and dump it on his body and then let the sun bathe him while he looks like a butterfly that just sprouted tiny sparkly wings. One word: Gay.

I’m sorry if the story of a guy that has a perpetual wince on his face and seems constipated about ninety-nine percent of the time, and a girl who has independence issues and can’t hold back her over-developed teenage hormones for the barest hint of a second (for former stated unattractive guy, no less) doesn’t appeal to me.

Then again, maybe it also has to do with spending seven dollars on a movie ticket, only to have your ears ringing from possible deafness because the people----and by people I mean, psycho, love-struck obsessed teenage girls with their minds clearly unhinged and unbelievable vocal chords----can’t seem to keep quiet whenever a half-naked guy appears on screen.

And how can you even do that when professional make-up artists had to draw the abs on the so called “Hot, dangerous, sultry vampire”? Their actions seriously make me rethink the values of the female race.

So here we have a wacked-up movie with over-the-top dialogue, annoying characters that sparkle and brood and whine, and even worse fans that cry, and weep, and shriek until their voices run out.

Please explain to me how this became the number one movie competing with way better hollywood productions with actual talent?

Please tell me how vampires that look like gay buttercups are somehow considered hot?

Please tell me how to completely destroy this treacherous, earth-shattering mayhem that has caused the complete discovery that the female gender is an infuriating, hopeless case.

We are officially doomed.

Chocolate Fugitive

I can’t help it if I like chocolate.

I mean, who in their straight mind would ever have the audacity to not vast in the smooth, sweet, everlasting current of pure genius that makes up a chocolate and all its profound glory? I know, I sound like I’m directing a sermon, but in this case it’s only mandatory.

So you can understand how absolutely pissed off I was when my oh-so-loving dad decided to abstain me from enjoying it as just a tiny, repeat tiny, morning snack.

Picture me, minding my own business, opening the awaiting refrigerator, reaching in for the only chance at pure bliss… when my dad decides to coincidentally pass by.

I, being the all-knowing daughter that I am, try (key word: TRY) to discreetly hide the muffin behind my back, but my timing was unfortunately too late…(plus, I had crumbs all over my mouth so my attempts would have otherwise been futile).

“ISABELLA GARCES!! WTF are you doing?!” He didn’t really curse, but I can’t think of another way to truly bring his fury onto writing without doing so.

Okay, see, my dad is in pure reality, diabetic. So now you understand his reasons for his antagonism towards anything sugar-related (due to his fear for my unbecoming fate of being diabetic as well), and won’t wrongfully infer him to be a narcissistic father whose sole purpose in life is to starve his children. Just to get that cleared up.

That is why I knew to hide the confection from him the moment he stepped into my line of vision. I know him all too well.

And apparently, he knows me enough too, considering when I tried walking past him with a simple, high-pitched, “Nothing,” all the while hiding my hands from his all-too-observant eagle eyes, he didn’t for the barest hint of a second believe me.

That is when chaos erupted.

Here is my dad, red creeping all over his face, his eyes bulging out of their eye sockets, sweat basically running down his forehead, yelling at me to stop eating the amazing creation in my hand (not in those words, exactly) and to stop walking at that exact instant.

Here I am, fury burning through my whole being, my eyes burning holes into my dad, as I quickly waddle out of the room with my dad yelling behind me, and not helping myself from screaming, “WHY DO YOU CARE?” And then quickly regretting my words (which would undoubtedly lead to the unbecoming future of my dad getting even angrier) and resorting to say, “IM NOT GONNA EAT IT!!” All the while still running up the stairs, the chocolate muffin still in my hand, probably proving my stated notion as false.

During this whole scenario, my sister is right there, cracking up, looking back and forth as if she’s watching a freaking tennis match. I can’t help being mad considering she had eaten the other scone, without managing to get caught, and here I was: a fugitive escaping a death sentence.

It ended up with me taking a few (amazing, forbidden) bites while up in my bedroom, and going back downstairs and when asked by my dad, “Show it to me,” I forcefully confirmed the evidence by quickly giving him sight of the left-over scone, and resorting to put it back in the refrigerator, my dad watching in all his triumphant glory.

Safe to say it ended peacefully, my dad and I laughing about it hours after (repeat: HOURS…a loss like that takes time to recuperate from).

Of course, I failed to mention I went back to finish it off more tactfully when I was sure my dad was sleeping and there was no chance of getting caught.

Yes. I am, in fact…a rebel.

Beware.