Today, my good friend Amy surprised me with this extra special Photoshopped gift, which brightened my day considerably more than my encounters with poppy-men Usher and Craig David. I got my photo with them, too, which was nice, but when it comes to the men of my dreams these days, you can keep your Grammy Awards, your 45 million record sales figures, your penthouse apartments and fussing entourages. I like my men dead, cold, sparkling and lusting for the taste of my blood. And failing that, I like them howling outside my windows, bounding on four legs through forests and “imprinting” on me when the moon is as full as a wheel of Gouda. Mmmm…
With this one little picture, Amy has rendered me at one with Twilight, in a way I never deemed possible. Sure, you might think this is a bit sad… perhaps a little weird. You might think, don’t you have anything better to do with your life than wish you were dead, destined to spend all eternity as a vegetarian vampire, fighting the urge to pash a werewolf? Well, the answer is no. I don’t have anything better to do than think about this.
Sure, I do other stuff with my days; mundane things like breathe, eat food, hang out with humans, but when it comes to that stuff being BETTER than getting my blood sucked out through my neck by a man who sparkles in the sun and flies me up to the treetops after school… don’t be ridiculous. What could be better than that? I’m just killing time until I’m killed by the love of my life, really.
No man is good enough unless he’s part mythical creature, these days. Amy knows this. Thank you Amy. You are a true friend. (And thanks for calling me Bella when I ask you to).