...why I wrote this. I found it when I was applying for Grad Schools. I guess I just had to get some things out, but it was pretty funny so here it is. May I just leave with the fact that I was in poor health and extremely drugged at the time:
It had to be bloody Twilight. I mean, people always say “you’ll know when it’s right”. And I have to admit, this is exactly what I thought it would feel like when it was right. Of course I also thought that when it was right, he’d be straight.
Acting in a Twilight parody was not exactly what I expected. I don’t really know what I expected exactly, but I didn’t expect it to affect my outlook so drastically. It’s true that whatever show you’re in tends to bleed over into the rest of your life—but it generally has an opposite effect. Like how the cast of the Sound of Music made their own horror film onset. But with Twilight, I find that my entire life has become heightened emotionally.
I actually read all four books to prepare. I had to stop reading them at night because they were giving me melodramatic nightmares. Huge sweeping, granite hard babies bursting out of my stomach a la John Hurt. Being rape-kissed by hulking copper-skinned beasts, and yes, that is how it read in my dreams. But more than the details of the books it’s the whole way of looking at each other. Touching each other. Talking to each other. It starts as a joke, it then begins to transcend your subconscious.
Getting back to my love struck infatuation. Of course he’s Edward. I mean, really, how else would it play out? What, am I supposed to be kept up nights—nights that I should be floating through in a Klonopin-induced stupor—dreaming about the sound guy? It’s only natural that I’m pining and crying and mentally slapping myself to jar my way out of some really counterproductive lustful daydreams. But why, WHY?! did it have to be Twilight? I mean, under normal circumstances I would be it aside, put it in its proper place. But not now.
Let me take a moment to mention, that he is basically the dreamiest dreamboat of a man that ever lived. And exactly everything that I’ve ever wanted. And on a side note: why can’t straight men ever make me feel this beautiful and talented? And really, I suppose, while this way there is no way of him loving me, at least there’s not another woman. The idea of him getting from some other person what he could get better from me would kill me. At this way I know I have nothing that interests him.
I’m actually considering writing to Stephanie Meyer and asking her what would have happened if Edward hadn’t fallen in love with Bella. And not killed her. I mean, what if he had felt nothing particular about her? What if she was just another human that he saw, going along in his day? What if she had felt this insane, intense attraction to him, and he was like “Oh yes, that Swan girl who’s in my Biology class. Nice strawberry shampoo”? Her books have started to seem oddly presentient in my life. I’d just kinda like to know what she thought. Not that I want my life to turn out like a Twilight novel. No wait, if that means I get to end up with my Edward, I’m in for anything.
Playing a Twilight character is really an odd experience. For starters, I, as of now, have had 2 or 3 guys who have unabashedly stared at me as I talk to them or walk by. One full on stared until someone poked him and broke him out of his stupor. But mostly it’s the women who are all over me. They are much less disguised in their admiration. I mean, the first night, I had a girl ask me to take a photo biting her neck. Each night I have some table who are obviously “Team Bella”. And, every night, I find one woman who wants to be my best friend. Seriously. We’ll sit and we’ll chat and I will at some point ask her if she wants to be my best friend and she just lights up and says “Okay!”
The other half of that is that people hate you. When I first started they warned us that people would hate us just because of the characters we were playing. I thought that that only applied to Edward and men’s self-esteem issues, but no, it goes both ways. The second or third night of the show we had a crowd of three sitting at the back table. The table that I still refer to as the “arsehole table”. They left their notes (it’s a murder mystery) on the table, and I had the bad sense to read them. At first I thought they must be joking. Until of course I found my face scratched out with a pen on one’s program. Writing about how I was terrible at dying and all sorts of other venomous notes. And then on the prediction slip (who killed her, how, and why) I found that one had written that I died of having “bloody big tits”.
Rather than pull a Stephanie Meyer and sit here for pages and pages and pages enumerating Matthew’s irresistible qualities, perhaps some of you would appreciate a plot, or at least some type of wit. While I don’t know if I can promise either, here you go.
Naturally I don’t have the luxury of working as an actor all the time. As my teacher said “You must pay for your acting habit”. During the day I buy jewelry from jewelers, agents, crackheads and thieves.
