OK, so it has been no big secret that I really don’t get all of the hullabaloo over the Twilight series. I mean, they were kind of a fun read, if you ignore the dysfunctional relationships, repeated use of the same three words, and cheesy ending to the series.
But the obsession? The twitterpating? Just. Don’t. Get it.
And, of course, up until now, my older sister has been about the worst of the Twi-hards. She thinks I’m dead inside. I think that she’s going through a mid-life crisis. Whatever–we just have to agree to disagree on the merits of the series.
The point of all of this, though, is that she’s no longer the queen of the vampire freaks. Oh no, she has definitely been dethroned.
Yesterday, we had a big Christmas party with Sean’s family. I walked in the front door and his twenty-year-old cousin came running up to me.
“You have to see my new tattoo!” she gushed (although, if she were a character in the books, she would have been glaring while she smoldered it).
Now, this cousin already has a couple of tattoos. The first one was a tiny flower on the side of her foot. Nothing horrible. The second one is a huge, heart-shaped Celtic knot thingy with her son’s name under it. But at least it is on her rib cage and, therefore, usually hidden.
She held out her arm. On her wrist, in thick, black lettering, is the word “Twilight.” She just took the book with her, pointed to the title, and said, “Do that.”
You know, some day she really isn’t going to care about those books. And there is no covering this thing, unless she wants to wear really long sleeves for the rest of her life.
When you can live forever, what do you permanently scrawl on your body?