Dear Edward Cullen

Dear Edward Cullen,
You and I need to have a little talk. I’m sure you know why. Don’t worry, I’ll meet you somewhere dark and rainy if you like. We wouldn’t want those pesky sunlight induced crystals to ruin your “normal boy” façade. I’ll even let you bring your likewise afflicted friends, if that would make this process any easier for you. But you can leave that Bella girl at home; I know you really, really want to eat her, and I’m pretty sure you’re just keeping her around in case you feel like a tasty snack during your long sleepless nights, but she and I wouldn’t get along too well, you see I require actual brain activity in my friends, and teenage girls clearly suffering from neuro-vegetation just don’t make the cut. But from the signals you’ve been sending, I don’t think frigid virgins are on your mind either.

You can tell that I’m putting in a lot of effort to be diplomatic here, and under the circumstances, I think you’ll agree this makes me a pretty fucking understanding human being. But I think we can dispense with the niceties now, don’t you? Let’s just admit to what’s really going on here: you’re stalking me. Everywhere I turn there you are. You lurk in the gloom filled corners of my favourite bookstores, your pale face and golden eyes trying to lure me to you. You stand in the windows of CD stores, skin like marble, unmoving as a statue, silently begging me to join you. From the covers of magazines you entice me with forced human emotions, smiling here, laughing there, thoughtfully smoking a cigarette over there. You try to look natural, but we all know what’s going on. You’re obsessed with me. It’s okay, I understand, I’m a little bit obsessed with me too.

Who could resist my abrasive personality? My tendency towards the introspective, the antisocial, the offensive; these are simply irresistible qualities in a woman, I know. Perhaps you recognise a little bit of yourself in me. After all, neither of us is particularly good in social situations, you because you’d like to eat everyone, me because I’d like to kill everyone. We neither of us tolerate the inanities analogous with social interaction. The “how are yous”, the “I like your shirts”, the nodding and smiling as people tell you details of their lives that you have no interest in: stories about their dogs, their mothers, their dying siblings, their sexuality, their suicidal tendencies, these interactions drive us both practically homicidal.

I know you can read thoughts, and I don’t envy you this curse: people in general are stupid and boring; I can’t imagine their interior lives would be much different. Me on the other hand, I have a technicolour fictional world, my fantasies are accurate to the point of obsession, and they must be fascinating to eavesdrop into. I mean fuck, I’m far more interested in what’s going on in my made-up world than the real one. And speaking of fucking, I have a general proclivity towards that activity as well, unlike Miss Bella “my hymen’s still intact” Swan. That must surely be another reason for your growing obsession with me.

But you see, Edward, we’ve got a problem. You are a pretty fucking lame vampire. And I have to admit, I’ve done other vampires. I had a thirteen year relationship with the original vampire with a soul, Angel. His whinging and whining got to me too. All that crap about being a monster, atoning for sins, the trepidation about fucking in case he went all Angelus on me again, it got truly dull. I honestly looked forward to evil Angel; I mean sure people tended to die, and sure, apocalypse was never far from his mind, but man, he looked great in leather pants. That relationship was intermittently punctuated by my dalliances with the peroxide-haired Spike, who really knew how to party, and had no qualms about killing or fucking. Until that whole got a soul thing came up again, and then he got all pathetic and annoying too.

So you see by comparison, you are a total pussy. I’m sorry there’s simply no other way to put it, I've searched high and low for gender neutral expletives. You are a pussy. Sure you’re strong, you’re fast, and yeah, I’ll admit it, you’re pretty fucking hot too, but you’re not much fun are you? Lots of girls might swoon while you listen to Debussy, teach yourself French, and play lullabies on the piano for them, but not me. Uh uh. I like my vampires the same way I like life: fast, dark, and dirty. And you, my faithful stalker, are none of those things. A vampire that doesn’t kill or fuck goes against all of my morals.

There’s no future for you and I, Edward, you need to let it go. You have to stop following me like a bloodsucking, immortal puppy. I don’t want to see you anymore, not in the bookstores, not in the music shops, not in the window at Supre, not on the covers of magazines. I know it’s hard, but you have to let me get on with my life. I suggest you go home, fuck that virgin bride until your blue balls are cured, kill some irritating human beings- that Stephanie Meyer is pretty fat; she’d have a lot of blood to give, why don’t you start there?- take off your chinos, tone down the bouffant, stop plucking those eyebrows, and grow the fuck up. In short, I really just need you to go back to wherever the hell it is from which you came, and leave me the fuck alone.

Sincerely,
Helena Handbasket