Enjoy another edition of “How I fell for Robert Pattinson”
I have a confession to make. It all started with a naughty Catholic schoolgirl outfit. Intrigued? Mmmm, yes I know you are.
Flash back to almost one year ago. I was standing in the cheesy Halloween superstore for about the fifth time, completely given up on finding any type of original costume, and ending up torn between the naughty schoolgirl referenced above…and a vampire. Finally, I decided to say eff it, grab some fangs, fake blood, and a cheap vinyl cape, throw it all on with my favorite LBD and spiky heels, and call it a day, Halloween not really being my thing.
Little did I know at the time how the appearance of anything related to vampires could spark that crazed look in a Twihard’s eyes, that my showing up in this outfit would result in another female at the party making a beeline for me and beginning to gush about the Twilight books, insisting that I read them. I uttered the party line we all said at one time or another before we were converted – “I’m not really into the whole vampire thing.”
She gave me that familiar knowing smile that I now offer to pretty much everyone I speak to, saying, “Just trust me. Read them.”
She then continued with the gushing, now moving on to the subject of the soon-to-be released movie, commenting on you specifically. “I’ve been in love with him forever,” she told me, “since Harry Potter, even though I felt like a pedophile. I just kept staring at the screen, thinking who is this beautiful, beautiful boy?”
And then I said it. Brace yourself Rob, because I did in fact say it, even if it pains me greatly to even think the words at this point. “Yeah, I’ve seen the pictures on Perez,” I replied flippantly. “He doesn’t really do anything for me.”
GASP! Will she or Won’t she fall for you!? Find out after the jump!
Dear God, Rob sometimes I wish I could go back to a time when you didn’t “really do anything for me,” because now you do lots of things for me, and none of them are good. But I’ll come back to that…
So I decided to see what all the fuss was about, bought the damn books, and proceeded to fall promptly head over heels in love with Edward Cullen. You? You, I could still take or leave. I studied you at the Twilight premiere and thought you looked like crap. Your pants were too tight, and I thought this alleged Sex Hair just looked like plain ol’ Crazy Person Hair. “He should walk around done up as Edward all the time,” I told my bff. “He looks better that way.” I watched you on Ellen, all for the love of Twilight, mind you, (the name Robert Pattinson meant little to me in comparison to the name Edward Cullen), and squinted hard at the TV, pondering why exactly Summit even allowed you to speak. (Although I must admit, I was a little bit captivated by how amusing you seemed to find yourself when you made that “scream at me in relationships” comment. Then I worried that you were actually going to choke on your own laughter.)
Then…things started to get weird.
That was you? That was you singing those raw, heart-wrenching words that ripped my heart out as Bella hovered between life and death? I mean….I’d heard that was you during mushroom ravioli…but…this too? And you…you played the piano growing up? And the guitar? And sometimes did this most charming thing of showing up at open mic nights?
And…those grubby clothes…they really weren’t for show, they really weren’t part of your so-called image, but seriously the only three shirts that you owned? Because you sure didn’t seem to be showing up in anything else. You really didn’t care?
You were really still smiling, and seeming happy and gracious about all this, and not showing up out on the town every night with a different hot, young Hollywood thing on your arm?
And you did those interviews? Those irresistible, adorkable interviews outside of ComicCon and with the Variety people where you really thought deeply about not only Edward Cullen but also your underwear? And the last time you cut your toenails?
Shit, Rob…I was starting to waiver.
And then you cut your hair off. It’s not that I loved your new look, mind you, but it did force me to see you in a new light. There was one picture captured of you where you were almost glaring at the camera from behind your RayBans, and all of a sudden it hit me that you Rob, apart from Edward Cullen, could be clean…I mean, hot.
Then you disappeared, taking my heart with you when you went. I think you were hiding away in the hotness bat cave or something, just waiting for the transformation to be complete. And then proceeded to step out on the Oscars’ red carpet looking like classy, walking sex, yet still your normal humble self. You said hi to your frickin’ mum. You flew off to Japan to make some Prada panty-melting stuff happen.
And by this point, Rob, I was done. I have no idea what happened to the guy who “didn’t really do anything for me,” but in his place had emerged what I now simply refer to as Sex on Fire. And on fire I was.
Can I pinpoint the exact date that I officially fell for you? Well, no I cannot, but I know it’s sometime around that point. And as Christians divide their historical calendar, I now divide mine into two distinct segments: B.R. and A.R. – Before Rob and After Rob.
In the years B.R., I was what I believe to be a normal, well-adjusted woman in her twenties. I went to work and believe I actually focused on my job, sometimes even seeking out projects proactively to make good use of my time. I came home and went to the gym. I did SOMETHING to fill my hours at night, although now it’s a bit hard to remember what exactly that was. I may have read, I may have interacted with friends from the RW, I may have tried new recipes or something.
In the almost year A.R., I’m an addict. Work is what I do in between the times I’m checking the blogs for the latest updates on your whereabouts or orgasm-inducing photo shoot. Work is the place where I pray to God no one in any position of authority is actually pulling up my i-net browser history, because it would be a hell of a stretch trying to explain how hunterhunting’s blog educating the public on some very interesting piercings is relevant to my job. I do still go to the gym, but that’s only out of the necessity that I’m in tip top shape for the moment you actually choose to grace my life with your presence. Oh, and I do still read…but books? What the hell are they? No, my reading happens via the computer screen these days, where in my head I superimpose your face onto the bastard boss who’s bending his assistant over his desk or going down on her in a stairwell. (I’m depraved…I know.) These days, there’s a distinct line between the time devoted to my friends who don’t know of your greatness and those who do. Hell, I have to battle to find it in me to care about a Twi-virgin’s latest devastating break-up if a fellow Robsessor has just emailed me to let me know a photo has been released where I can kinda maybe sorta see a half inch of your boxers. And cooking? Forget about it. I’ll take Lean Cuisine any day of the week and twice on Sundays if it means that’s twenty more minutes I have to chat with people I’ve never met, but feel like my closest friends in the Twiliverse. I find myself using the word porTENtious. Sometimes I slip “lit’rally,” complete with the British pronunciation, into work presentations without realizing it, and am just waiting for someone to ask WTF that came from.
Most of the time, I believe myself to be a functional addict. I believe I’m still juggling the daily responsibilities of my day to day, not missing any mortgage payments, and sparing half an hour for my sig other now and again. And then sometimes, I know I’m just kidding myself, that I’m in way over my head, and there’s no cure in sight. Like May 25th for example, when I was rendered entirely effing useless, just sitting at my computer for hours on end hitting the refresh button like some kind of trained monkey. Recently I’ve been thinking that any moment the bad case of Mullet Goggles you’ve seem to have developed is going to shake me out of my stupor and remind me that you’re just a normal 23-year-old guy getting a piece where he can, but it doesn’t seem to be working, and I seem to remain utterly devoted to you even if you have moved on.
So nearly one year after I made the comment that now mocks me, claiming that you “didn’t really do anything for me,” I felt the need to sit back and reflect on how we got to this point. I may not know exactly WHEN it was, I may not know exactly WHAT it was (although biel’s videos always seem to do an amazing job honing in on it)…but I know that the damage is done. And that apparently it’s irreversible. You own me now, and I confess…I really wouldn’t have it any other way.
At the end of this, Rob, if you find that you’re fixating on the idea of that naughty schoolgirl costume and not listening to anything else I’ve said, perhaps I can make a suggestion? How ’bout this year I track down that mofo, you play the priest, and come on by to hear these aforementioned confessions in person? We can do this thing proper…I’m even willing to get down on my knees to beg for forgiveness…or other things. Most churches in the area seem to have a dumpster or two out back…
Tired of fighting the devil, so I’ve signed,