Posts Tagged Edward Cullen
Though I’m only halfway through “Fifty Shades of Grey,” which has been considered by some as “‘Twilight’ for grown-ups,” I have an idea of who should play Christian Grey, the S&M loving male protagonist.
Grey, who is a CEO with a flair for bondage and kinky sex, is a lot like “Twilight” hearthrob, Edward Cullen: Gorgeous, mysterious, popular, and dangerous. Similar to Cullen, Grey is a threat to the woman who fascinates him most, yet cannot stay away from her even though he knows it is not in either of their best interests. He is creepy, violent, domineering, controlling, and frightening. He actually reminds me a lot of Chuck Bass of “Gossip Girl.” I don’t know about you, but I’m on Team Chuck and Blair, which likely means I’d vote for Grey and Anastasia Steele as well as Cullen and Bella Swan. Anyway, having watched Ed Westwick thrive at the part of the wealthy, troubled, and emotionally shut off Chuck Bass for four seasons, I see a lot of Grey in the character and really think the British actor (like Rob Pattinson! Too perfect) could pull it off. Westwick has mastered the rich weirdo persona all too well and wouldn’t have to do all that much work to portray Grey. All this time, many have suggested Alexander Skarsgard, Armie Hammer, and even Ryan Gosling, but my mind is made up. Westwick is meant for “Fifty Shades of Grey”…That is, if it doesn’t interfere with “Gossip Girl” filming. Really, though, why hasn’t anyone suggested him yet? He was practically made to play Grey!
“I’m Chuck Bass, bitch”:
Thankfully, I am planning on meeting the author, E.L. James at her NYC book signing tomorrow and will ask her who she would like to see in the flick adaptation. Expect a full report! Any other ideas on what I should talk to the lovely writer about?
Just like that, the DC chapter of my life has officially ended. As much as I’ll miss my incredible social network and brilliant pals in the area, all I can say is good riddance. Though I’m never going to fully divorce my high strung tendencies (which push me to get so many things done in the first place!), it’s with immense relief and pride that I reveal that after my six-week move, I have finally calmed down. I no longer have to worry about canceling countless services, tying lose ends, shipping boxes up north, making dozens of tedious calls, or any of the other nonsense that comes with relocation. Earlier this week, someone made a snide comment about me hating moving, but let’s be honest: What kind of a self-loathing individual would enjoy the ordeal? New beginnings are great, but frantically removing a rotten vegetable from your fridge to avoid paying a
slob clean-up fee is not my ideal way of getting an adrenaline rush.
Though energized and in the mood to rant for several paragraphs, I will spare you all my complaints and race you to the bright and shiny end of the tunnel. A few days ago, Monique’s family stopped by the apartment to help us pack our things and clear out all the rooms. Her adorable 10-year-old sister, Katherine tagged along and anxiously cleaned the refrigerator. A few seconds into her mission, Katherine screamed.
“There’s a mold in one of your drawers!”
Upon examining the damage, I shrieked and identified the long, brown, oozing thing as a rotten cucumber, which I immediately recognized as the culprit for our pervasive kitchen stench that had been lingering in the air for months. Everything in the fridge tasted like moldy salad, even my pint of milk. If Monique and I end up being rushed to the hospital for e.coli or some sort of fungus in the coming weeks, you’ll know why.
As soon as I saw the dangerous piece of food, I ordered young Katherine to leave the area and refrain from touching anything. Monique’s intrepid mom came to the rescue and wiped the drawer spotless, but everyone had to plug their noses around the cucumber to keep from dry heaving. I was pretty disgusted that we lived in such a foul environment for so long, but couldn’t stop laughing at the sight of the cucumber. Laugh attacks help me cope with anxiety and stress, and I’ve had plenty of giggle fits since moving out of the apartment this weekend. It was about time!
Unfortunately, I didn’t laugh as much as I would have liked during yesterday’s “Twilight: Breaking Dawn” showing. The movie follows the beginning of 18-year-old Bella Swan’s marriage to vampire Edward Cullen, who impregnates her the moment they consummate their union. Edward didn’t seem to think vampires and humans could reproduce, so the news stuns everybody.
Before the baby drama takes place, Bella’s father remains skeptical of her marriage and her mom is all for it. If I pulled that on my parents right out of high school, they would have considered themselves complete failures and would probably cut off contact for a while. I don’t care what religion you abide by or how much you love someone: Don’t get hitched at 18. That’s insane.
Anyway, Bella goes down this road and becomes pregnant when she loses her virginity. Though she’s hardly a likable heroine, you can’t help but sympathize with Bella. Conception as a teenager is stressful and traumatic enough, especially if you’re carrying a vampire whose superhuman powers can destroy you. She transforms from a glowing young bride to a gaunt, pale, and sickly pregnant lady who spends all her hours on couches and lying to family members about what’s going on. Others call her fetus the “demon” who will stop at nothing to kill its mortal mother, but Bella wants to follow through with the pregnancy and turn into a vampire herself.
Towards the end of the movie, 90-pound Bella resorts to drinking blood to nourish herself and the growth inside her, and her husband gives her a C-section by biting into her stomach. When I explained this scene to my friend Andy, he grimaced and said, “And ‘Twilight’ is a popular thing??? Why would anyone want to follow such a twisted story?”
I didn’t have an answer for that. I admittedly love the concept of eternal love, but “Twilight” becomes too much as the series goes on. The author’s Mormon faith unquestionably influenced the books’ theme, and I simply can’t support a saga that promotes unhealthy life choices. Even the first movie shows Edward as more of a controlling figure than a nurturing boyfriend. He’ll do anything for Bella, but they clearly don’t have a relationship of mutual respect. He wants to be her hero and rescuer all the time and she has no interest in doing anything herself. Besides, the “Breaking Dawn” delivery scene is scarier than that birth video they made me watch in seventh grade and could definitely turn people off to having kids, or at least hooking up with sexy vampires.
I spent my last night in DC with a nameless college buddy of five years (who says himself that he’s not worthy of a blog mention) at his sega party. A few friends and I joked that it felt like an awkward high school gathering, especially since a bitter dude showed up and began screaming about the “awful professor” that derailed his career and slashed his chances of becoming famous.
“If it hadn’t been for that bitch, I’d be a star artist right now,” he said.
If there’s anything I’ve learned from dealing with jerks, it’s that they’re not to blame for your own failures. A teacher picked on you in college? Build a bridge and get over it. I had plenty of instructors tell me I was worthless and silly growing up, but I’d never fault them for my issues now. Such a mentality is misguided and destructive, not to mention a cop-out. You can’t keep telling yourself that someone else stopped you from going after your dreams.
There’s more to add about my final day in DC, but I’ll leave it at this: I woke up this morning with sore abs from laughing so much last night. I am not sure when I’ll have such hilarious memories again, but will always be grateful for the friends I made and times I had in DC. My coworkers were awesome, roommates have gotten me out of a lot of trouble and bad situations, and friends incredibly loyal. I only hope I can make equally solid and meaningful connections in NYC, but at the very least, I’ll have one Hell of a career. No matter what, DC is only a 3-hour train ride away, and I can go down for the weekend any time I’m in need of a laughing session or pep talk. My goal, however, is to establish a social life here. On it!
In the mean time, I’m going to head home, watch the stupidest DVD in my collection (toss-up between “Norbit” and “Mall Cop”), and laugh the evening away. Trust me, I need it after the past few weeks.
Joey, one of my good friends from college, is moving from California to northern Virginia very soon for grad school. Earlier today, I was 100 percent certain I saw him playing beer bong with a bunch of guys in front of a house in Falls Church. I walked closer to the grass and stared for several minutes, oblivious that the entire group of boys could see me watching them. They all started laughing, waving, and saying hello, but by that point Joey had responded to my text message and said that he had not moved to the east coast yet. So I scurried away, ignoring their beer pong invite. Perhaps next time, when I’m not wearing work-out clothes and carrying my lime green yoga mat.
Yesterday on the bus, I felt envious of a fellow rider who had dizzying earphones. I took several pictures of them and thankfully she didn’t notice, although the people nearby definitely raised their eyebrows at my paparazzi ways:
Bubble tea drinkers, I need your help. I’ve only ever bought some at Georgetown’s Snap, but if you know anything about the D.C. area, you know Georgetown is a pain in the ass. It remains my favorite part of the district, but I can’t make the trip out there every time I crave tapioca pearls. Where else can a gal buy bubble tea in the nation’s capital? Chinatown? DuPont Circle?
At the end of my senior year of high school, my history teacher instructed all of his students to write a five-year letter, which he promised to mail to us sometime in 2011. I wrote about my place in the world as a 17-year-old who was getting ready to attend the University of Arizona. Because I addressed the envelope to my mom’s house, I knew she’d end up reading my note, so I kept it light and appropriate.
Even as a teenager, I thought ahead. My mother received the letter this afternoon. She read it aloud to me over the phone and holy Lord was that embarrassing.
I didn’t say anything too bizarre, but I did make a weird statement like, “Never forget the love of your life, Kevin,” referring to my high school sweetheart. I really, really, really wish I hadn’t said stuff like that back then, but I was probably just grief-stricken and bored. Either way, I managed to channel love-struck, overly earnest “Twilight” character Bella Swan before her creation, so that’s pretty impressive. Stephenie Meyer totally stole from my MySpace page (sarcasm).
I’m happy to report that I’ve accomplished more than my 17-year-old self predicted. Though I loved writing back in high school, I had no idea how I’d put that hobby to good use. I certainly didn’t think I’d write for my college paper, win awards, or become a news writer/editor in D.C.
“Did you graduate college or have you been slacking off?” reads the letter. Unfortunately, I finished college on time last May. I could have really used another year at UofA. I guess I didn’t expect much from myself!
I also listed the names of my high school buddies and said I hoped I’d stayed in contact with them. At the time, I hadn’t yet created a Facebook account, which would ultimately help me maintain my childhood friendships. I rarely talk to most of these folks, but we laugh about our shared memories from time to time.
Two weeks before I’d written myself the letter, my father lost his battle to liver disease/cancer, so I wrote it from the lens of someone who had no idea how to cope with death in the immediate family.
“You’ll always be upset about dad, but I’m sure you’re over it by now,” I wrote. Yes and no. You simply can’t move on from this sort of thing, although I think about the situation a lot less now than I did in 2006, 2007, and 2008. After a few years, you’re sad that you’re no longer sad about what happened. Ralph Waldo Emerson explains this reaction in one of his essays. After his little boy died, Emerson was crushed about the fact that he’d moved on from the tragedy. In a way, you feel like you’ve betrayed the deceased. I don’t feel guilty anymore, although I do wonder how different my life would have been had cancer not thrown my family off-course. Whenever I get to thinking about what I would have done had this not taken place, I remember one of my dad’s biggest rules:
“What kind of a question is that, Laura?” he’d say.
“A ‘what if’ question,” I would respond.
“And what do we know about ‘what if’ questions?” he would ask.
“They’re not allowed because they’re hypothetical and not constructive,” I would reply.
These memories kill my “what could have been” train of thought. That’s not to say everything is certain. I’m often perplexed by my mom for snagging boyfriends after her husband died.
“She deserves to be happy,” others say. While I agree, I’m not so sure rushing into a relationship fills the void of a deceased spouse. There are no quick fixes for grief, and you can’t expect to have more than one big love in life. I’ve explained this at length to family members, but we just don’t discuss the topic anymore.
I’m tired of everyone expecting me to be maudlin, weepy, and sentimental on anniversaries, Father’s Day, Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays, etc. It’s draining and irritating when everyone wills you to be a poor little sad girl. In reality, I wouldn’t think twice about those dates if others didn’t bring them to my attention.
“Oh my God, are you going to be OK on Sunday?” someone will ask.
More often than not, I wouldn’t have even remembered nor cared.
As I was scrawling out the letter, my brother Kevin was expecting his first child, to be named Sawyer. That little boy is now four years old and he has a younger brother named Lukey. My other brother Mikey now has two kids as well. I’m totally and completely in love with all four of these toddlers and I wish I could see each of them more often. Am I a bad aunt for living so far away from them? Sometimes it seems so. Regardless, I can’t wait to see the people they grow into. I’m sure they’ll all thrive in adulthood.
As I was writing the five-year letter to myself, I’m pretty sure I intentionally set the bar low. I didn’t want to be disappointed in myself if I experienced a rough patch and made epic mistakes. If I write a letter like this to myself again, I’ll be sure to aim high. By 27, I hope to have penned a memoir, met Bill O’Reilly and Ke$ha (my two favorite famous folks), traveled the world, lived in Europe again, appeared in the New York Post as a writer, purchased an apartment in New York City or San Francisco (both of which are way cooler and less sanitized than boring D.C.), and been on Fox, MSNBC, and “The View.” Dream big!
I’m not going to lie: I really want to read this book, and it’s not because I find Snooki entertaining. I actually don’t watch “The Jersey Shore,” or any television for that matter. Snooki’s remarks are just too goofy, off-the-wall, unusual, and insane to ignore. You couldn’t make any of this stuff up.
Because I have graduated college and no longer encounter weirdos on a daily basis, I could really use a good laugh these days, and I feel Snooki’s book will definitely fulfill that need.
If you don’t believe me, just take a look at some of her book excerpts:
“He had an okay body. Not fat at all. And naturally toned abs. She could pour a shot of tequila down his belly and slurp it out of his navel without getting splashed in the face.”
“Yum. Johnny Hulk tasted like fresh gorilla.”
“Any juicehead will get some nut shrinkage. And bacne. They fly into a ‘roid rage, it is a ‘road’ ‘roid rage.”
“Gia had never before been in jail. It wasn’t nearly as gritty and disgusting as she’d seen on TV prison shows. The Seaside Heights drunk tank — on a weekday afternoon — was as clean and quiet as a church.”
“Gia danced around a little, shaking her peaches for show. She shook it hard. Too hard. In the middle of a shimmy, her stomach cramped. A fart slipped out. A loud one. And stinky.”
She may as well be speaking Italian. Oh wait, hasn’t she blasted people before for not being Italian enough? Oh, Snooki. Never a dull moment with this girl. If I ever make it huge in the writing world, I’d gladly write a profile on her. I know The New York Times did so already, but I’m sure her personality will be different enough in a decade that a fresh profile piece would be warranted.
Snooki, if you’re out there, ping me. I have a feeling we’d click. You’d talk, I’d laugh incessantly. Maybe you can teach me a little something about tanning, being that I’m a redhead, a.k.a. paler than Edward Cullen. I won’t lie: I’ll never reach guidette status. After all, I’m an Irish Catholic without a drop of Italian blood in my system, but I’m sure you’d appreciate my company. So come my way and make me laugh.
Until we meet, I’ll just have to re-read these excerpts from your novel whenever I desperately need to giggle.