Anybody who knows me fairly well would tell you that I am not a 14-year-old girl. Yet I subjected myself to the phenomenal pre-teen hit book Twilight by Stephanie Meyer. Why I did such unthinkable injustice to myself, in spite of being forewarned, is beyond the scope of this post.
To summarize the storyline, Edward is an Adonis-lookalike vampire who distanced himself from standard-issue vampires and went on one of those low-carb, non-human diets. He mingles with humans, pretending to be human, and attends high-school. In lunch and other recess times, he practices being awesome. Along comes the classic dumb heroine, Bella, who is beautiful but doesn’t know it, has everything but brains. To Edward she smells like irresistible food and makes his life miserable. So our 100-year-old vampire eventually falls in love with 17-year-old Bella. Talk about age gap. In case I haven’t mentioned it, the author reminds you every two pages that Edward is an awesome personification of awesomeness. Rest of the story is the standard formula. Add forbidden love, a pinch of angst and a villain and shake it. Out pours a saccharine love story.
As you can see, the story is just laughable. I kept imagining somebody falling in love with their food. To give you a better picture, here is how the story will look like if told by Edward, a human being, who falls in love with his food.
For the love of food
I am Edward. I am a human being. I used to eat chicken for breakfast, lunch and dinner and when I got hungry in the middle of the night. But I became a vegetarian. I vowed not to eat chicken any more. In fact, I go to school with a flock of chicken and pretend to be a chicken myself.
One day, this extraordinary chicken waltzed into my class! It smelled just like Butter Chicken Masala. I was overcome with hunger. It started looking like a barbecued chicken, so enticing, so inviting. But at the same time, I was terribly attracted to it too! I had all these feelings I couldn’t understand. Let’s just say, chicken breast started meaning more than just a sandwich to me. I was confused. Testosterone and hunger fought for control over my body. I wanted to kiss its delicate wing, make sandwich out of it, cuddle it and whisper Chicken-65 recipe softly into its ear.
The chicken had uncontrollable attraction for me too. What can I say, chicks dig me. I tried to persuade her to leave me. I confessed my hunger for her. I explained to her the various senses of the sentence, “I want to poke my hot iron into you.” She wouldn’t relent. She had dreams of marrying me and laying my eggs.
When the love story between us was cooking, another human laid his eyes on my chicken. He wanted it for a dinner date, where the date becomes dinner. I protected my feathered friend and made it mine.
I implored it to leave town, find greener pastures; I didn’t want to clip its wings. But it decided to abandon all its family for a human it knew for about 2 months and stay with me. Now I know why they call it chicken brain. We were a happy couple. Rest of the story is for birds.
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