And today I’ll get off of my knees
and cut you out just like a disease.
I’ve found ties cut by degrees
Give survival odds worse than these.

‘Cause you burned our bridges while I slept,
And all that I have left is
The feeling that I’ve thrown my heart away…

It’s in the aches and pains and the semen stains.
It’s in the letters that you wrote that made you seem so far away.
It’s in the tears you cried, blue eyes, bitter chains…
You know I said I’d do whatever it takes, I’d do whatever it takes…

Friendships end with words as weapons, sending hate with love professions;
Seal the fate of all we kept alive those summer nights.
You tried to lie forever, but the policy’s “whatever.”

And I’ll never forgive you this time,
But I still go back every night,
Hating the ways that I try
To believe I just need more time.

But you broke my back when I went blind,
And down here on the floor I find
The feeling that I’ve thrown my heart away…

It’s in the aches and pains and the semen stains.
It’s in the letters that you wrote that made you seem so far away.
It’s in the tears you cried, blue eyes, bitter chains…
You know I said I’d do whatever it takes, I’d do whatever it takes…

If you’ve been trying to let me know,
Sorry about me; I catch on slow.
But you could have spit it out and come undone when you saw I’d begun.
Thus, starry-eyed and sleep deprived,
We loved and lost; well, such is life.
But the only days we had were the early ones.

It’s in the aches and pains and the semen stains.
It’s in the letters that you wrote that made you seem so far away.
It’s in the tears you cried, blue eyes, bitter chains…
You know I said I’d do whatever it takes; I’ll do whatever it takes…

If you can’t see why I’d let you go,
Sorry about me; I let on slow,
‘Cause I’d just hate to see the look on your face the night I throw it all away.
But I can’t stay down here ignored when I don’t know you anymore.
You know I said I’d do whatever it takes…
…When everything starts to break…

…When everything starts to break…

So I just wrote a note. It’s really long, and I doubt it will tell you much you don’t already know, but it’s a sort of apology to my friends for the way I’ve lived most of my life, and you are key among that wronged group.

If you have a while to kill, there you are. If not, in summary, I’m sorry that I objectified you and tried to make you something you’re not.

This seems superfluous, I’m sure, but I feel better for having said it

Her – April 25

Hey.

So, I read your note. Wow. Thank you for sharing that…it must’ve taken a lot to write that, and more to post it…but then again, you’ve never been quite as closed off as me, so maybe not. =P

It’s been a really long time since we’ve communicated in any way, which is weird, but to be expected, I suppose.
I’m not sure if you hate me or not anymore…but even if you do, I want you to know that you really don’t need to apologize to me – for anything. If anything, I’m the one who owes you a lifetime of apology for jerking you around like I did.

What I have to say next you might not want to hear; who am I to have any opinion about your spiritual life? Anyway.
What happened to you at the retreat is so incredible…I’m completely overwhelmed, and over-full of joy that you’ve realized the love of Christ, realized part of all that He is to us, and realized that in Him you can find yourself…or rather, the absence of you and the presence of the Holy Spirit (Galatians!). I am so truly happy for you you have no idea; reading your note absolutely made my night, and I’m just thanking God that He’s moved you like that. Thank you.

uhm.
I’m now at a total loss…I suppose I’ll wish you a happy end of the semester and an amazing summer, if I don’t get the chance to talk to you.

God bless you and keep you, Griffin; I’m so happy you’re His.

Me – April 26

Maybe I just like writing long letters. = D In that vein, give this one a try.

I totally forgot I sent you that note. I’m glad you enjoyed it.

I don’t hate you. I never did. I didn’t the last time you thought that either. It’s just that sometimes you (that is, I) run out of things to say. Chuck Klosterman says that movies primarily lie about the connections between people because said characters are never silent, even at breakfast, “but unless one of you has had a particularly weird dream, there is absolutely nothing to talk about at breakfast.” Sometimes it becomes a little bit like that between friends, except it doesn’t end with breakfast. I think that’s what it’s like with us, honestly.

I didn’t delete you on here because of any enmity I felt (as if Facebook ever said anything real about people in the first place). I just felt I was leaning towards taking too much of an interest in some of the new places your life was going, and I refuse to become an internet stalker, so I removed the ability. It was probably best, given the circumstances.

No apologies either way. Life works that way sometimes. We feel things at different times, and stuff happens based on that, and it’s not like it’s a neo-fairy tale; it doesn’t always have to feel entirely great while it happens. In truth, there were a lot of good times, and one of these days, when I’m, like, totally old or something, I’ll look back on my high-school/quizzing/small Pittsburgh suburbs days, realizing that I don’t regret anything that happened in my life.

That said, I don’t know your world anymore and you don’t know mine either. We couldn’t really be in each other’s lives these days no matter how many emails we traded. To be honest, I don’t really want to hear all about Grove City (Nate’s going there; he told me yesterday. Evidently they’re giving him more money than Wheaton would have. I’m bitter as all hell presently, but you should totally say hi if you see him around next year), and I’m sure you wouldn’t love me gushing about some random spot in the Midwest (long story short, it snows until April, at which point it rains) — I mean, where do you go from there?

I still think about you sometimes. Actually, I still write songs about you sometimes, which is much more iffy, but hey, I take them as they come, and they’re still pretty awesome. (If you randomly get a CD in the mail someday, you should see what you think.) But I realized months ago that the real you — the person who has a life and a story, the person who is probably doing great things and making awesome friends — couldn’t help me with that. That’s the only person worth knowing, but I don’t have any real connection with that person anymore, which is a little sad, but, more importantly, which is fundamentally how life seems to work. And I’ve come to terms with that relatively well.

As for the fake person in my head now and then — well, I think that person was always more than a little imagined, and dealing with that is my problem.

This is textbook growing apart. Your letter doesn’t bother me because you’re expressing opinions on my spiritual life; I don’t think you’re any less spiritual than any of my friends here, for sure. It was comforting in a way. But it’s also painful and awkward to read because it’s written as though we had just had a long, in-depth conversation about where exactly we are these days, one that allowed us to know each other again, but in a new and better way. And we haven’t. I don’t think it’s possible for us to do so at this point. The problem with the plans we made to be friends forever wasn’t that it all goes to hell when the romance dies so much as that we changed worlds too much and thus changed who we are a little too much.

We’re both adults. We can handle this. I don’t blame you for anything. Let’s not make it a big deal.

Me – July 20
Sam,

There’s a prettier draft of the following in my travel journal, but at 2:40 in the morning following Katy Perry trashing my brain for about two hours, it doesn’t feel right.

I’m so sorry for everything I said in the last letter I wrote you. I’m sorry I tried to close myself off, that I pretended it was a natural end to everything so that I didn’t have to feel like I was obligated to keep this friendship alive. I’m so sorry for the lies. It wasn’t true when I said I didn’t want to know where your life was going; it still isn’t. I’ve regretted ever since passing up the opportunity to hear about where you are and what’s going on.

That the bridge between us was burned is no more than I deserved and no less than I was asking for, and I don’t have any brilliant excuses; it’s not like I couldn’t have guessed at some point I’d regret being an asshole. But all the same, I’m really, really sorry for all I wrote you, for ever saying that your life didn’t matter to me anymore. And if nothing else, I owe you that…I don’t know, on the off chance it will brighten your day to let you know that someone halfway across the world thinks you’re pretty cool and had a really special place in bringing my life to the point where it is now.

Griff

A friend: “Hey! I haven’t seen you in like a week!”
Me: “Yeah, I know…it’s crazy…” *insert further generic “whoa” comments.*
Friend: “Yeah…what have you been doing?”
Me: “Well, school’s been crazy…” *insert further generic “school” comments.*
Friend: “Yeah…Are you going to the masquerade ball?”
Me: “No…we decided to play ping-pong instead!” *smiles, as this is obviously an awkward joke.*
Friend: “Wow, so predictable!” *walks away.* “You are so predictable!”

Well. Crap.

It’s not that I mind being predictable. I had a conversation later on that night, in which we discussed how everyone is pretty much predictable…we’re all just sort of bad at reading each other. Actually, I have no problem with other people reading me; if I’m reduced to base narcissism, which I generally am, this means that people are paying enough attention to enough of the crap that I do that they’re seeing patterns, and if they care enough about my life for that, then that’s the only thing I really care about. It’s not that.

It’s not specifically the masquerade ball. I heard it sucked. I heard pretty much no one was there because everyone cared more about the basketball game, which I have equally little regret about missing, and thus that nothing interesting went down. I didn’t have a great time playing ping-pong that night, but I didn’t have a terrible time either, and I won’t remember either the games or the ball a week from now. That’s not what’s giving me pause either.

I care for two reasons, and it’s quite possible that neither is any good, but I’ll talk about them for a while nonetheless to justify any reading of the blog until now.

First, I share what could possibly be a universal trait: people I respect as authority figures or “role models” (used loosely) think the things my friends and I do to connect are insignificant and a waste of my life/talent/whatever. Yes, I admit it is not uncommon for my friends and I to hit plastic balls on a table for a few hours at a time. What is wrong with this? Why is this any less legitimate than when, hours later, I talk with those same people about the messages inherent in the entertainment world of modern America, or when I hang out at their psych labs or they at my debate tournaments? Isn’t there a place for living in such a way that you can connect with people on multiple levels at different times? Plus, I have an unusually competitive nature that I enjoy stimulating with some of those close to me by playing pool and ping-pong. What makes “normal” societal interaction (i.e. balls, dances, dates, long discussions) any more worthwhile than these things?

But that doesn’t upset me. That just makes me feel moderately defensive. The real problem is that I feel like I’m missing something.

In some respects, I have a social life here. I probably know as many upperclassmen through debate and YHM as the rest of 4E’s freshmen combined (exaggeration, but you get the idea). Those two organizations have a large number of amazing people, and I’ve been really blessed by them. DSG has provided me with an outlet and with a number of great men of faith to hang and grow with. And I’ve got a tight circle (next year’s roommates and a couple others) of very close friends that I wouldn’t trade for anything. I’ve been pretty blessed, especially as at the end of last semester, I had no one besides my roommate I considered to be a close friend at all. Things have been awesome, no question.

But something is missing nonetheless. There’s something in between a casual acquaintance and a close friend…I’m not sure how to describe it. Someone who knows more about me than my name, if less about me than my most intimate hopes, plans and secrets. Someone with whom I can have interesting, relatively deep conversation while still maintaining a casual relationship. These are the kind of people you ask to things like masquerade balls and hang out with because you happened to meet them in between your floors or in the basement or cafeteria. And I don’t really know any people like this, especially girls.

I’ve usually been able to rationalize this or pretend it’s not happening. I had a major crush over the last few weeks until I learned something that pretty much shattered that, and I managed to delude myself into thinking I could actually make something happen there. I couldn’t have, of course; while I’ve interacted with this random girl more than most other random girls I’ve met, I’m not in her life in any real way. Nevertheless, it felt kind of good while it lasted. For a while I thought it was just something all freshmen go through, but I realized last night playing Kemps that it was actually the first time I’d hung out with a group of people from my sister floor since pretty much orientation. It was really fun, and I might try to do it more, but it’s rather disconcerting when other people around me are talking intimately or sharing well-established inside jokes with people whose names I still haven’t learned.

It might be said that this is either just me demanding attention or me wanting lame, Christian youth group-style relationships with girls. I don’t deny I have those tendencies. We’re readily approaching two months straight of “single” for me for pretty much the first time since late 9th grade, and I’m not going to pretend that has always been a welcome circumstance. And I do sort of like to be the center of things a little too much. But this is different than that. International quizzing was a social scene built entirely upon awesome encounters between casual friends, and those have given me some of the most unforgettable relationships and experiences of my life. That’s what I’m missing out on here. I miss the experiences, I miss the conversations, I miss the laughs and the good times. I don’t think this comes solely from my own vices. I think there’s something good actually eluding me here.

This is, to some extent, founded upon insecurity, but of a different sort than the usual. I don’t need friends to feel interesting or smart or funny or attractive — I have a natural sort of self-confidence that naturally grants me all these things, for which I’m very grateful. I’m loved by God, which lets me feel valuable in far greater measure than any of this. And I’ve got close friends if I need someone to leech off of as a last resort. No, but in some respects, I need people to a greater extent than most people to avoid feeling sad and lonely and pessimistic about the world. I need some people around me so that I don’t think that everything’s sad, or that my life is consumed in work that won’t ever satisfy me. I think this is because I grew up a little too fast for my own good.

It’s sort of weird writing this and realizing how vulnerable, weak and, in some respects, immature it sounds. To the many adults who watched me grow, I was always the prize child, the one who could actually hold “adult conversations,” the most spiritual one, the smart one…whatever. As Bayside said, “And I [looked] so strong when the weight of all the world [wouldn't] take its toll.” Well, it is…it has for some time now. I’m okay being half-prodigy, half-underdeveloped. Next year as a sophomore I’ll probably be younger than the majority of the freshman class. I’ve got some things to learn. I can take that now. I can admit that I need some “bigger people” to come alongside me sometimes and show me that this is a great place where God has called me and where some awesome stuff is going to happen. It happens, you know?

Like I said, I’m the kid of the freshman class. I mean, I’m probably the youngest person enrolled here (siq brags, d00d). This is why it makes me a bit sad that I don’t even know most of my peers who are around me. Because while it’s been amazing getting to know the upperclassmen, in some respects, I’ll never be able to relate to them. Listening to some of the older debaters talk to each other, you can see that they’re close because they’ve grown together over time in a way I never will with them. That’s okay; that’s life and God’s planning. But I’m scared I’ll never grow close over time together with my peers. And that’s scaring me. I think I would miss out on something that could be amazingly special if that occurred.

This is totally random, but I miss hugging people. I think I’ve only hugged two or three people since I came here. This makes me sad, in some respects because it’s just a friendly way of caring about people, and in some other respects, because of a psychological complex I have where being enveloped makes me feel safe from the rest of the world. Obviously it doesn’t fall to the rest of the world to cater to this. But even so, I’m sort of sad that this aspect of communing with the people around me has pretty much faded.

So this has, perhaps, stated the problem accurately (if certainly not succinctly). But why does it matter? Why is what I need so important? The rest of the world wasn’t put here to serve me, were they? No. And I constantly need to remind myself to hope not just for my happiness but for the happiness of everyone on campus, because we all feel a little lonely or like we’re missing something now and again. I need to pray not just that I’m meeting the right people, but that we all bless each other in a community of faith. But if I never interact with my peers or the people around me, not only am I not being blessed by them, but they aren’t really profiting by my existence either, which makes me sad as well. Could they? Well, like William Beckett, there are certainly times when “I am no gentleman/I can be a prick.” But if God speaks through donkeys, it seems he could probably do a little bit with me too. I mean, I am at least a generally sentient being…so I’ve got that going for me…

In 2004, I had perhaps a similar experience with quizzing at internationals. The first year of an eventual four, I didn’t get to know anyone well and had a generally bad time. By the fourth, I had lived some of the best experiences I have to date. Maybe this is the same, except that I started out a little better off — I’ve hardly had a bad time at Wheaton this year. If so, well and good. After all, this quad I gained a lot of close friends; if I gain some casual ones next quad, then I’m incredibly blessed (not that I’m not anyway). I hope this is the case. But the comment of my friend seems to indicate that as long as something in my outlook or my habits doesn’t change, I will always end up this way. I’ve gone on too long to think about what that specifically is or how to change it. But it both makes me uneasy about the prospect of eventual change and also begs for the final question to consider.

“Doesn’t this all hinge on the comments of one friend?” This is what my closest friends said when I told them much of this last night. “Do you really trust this one person, whom we don’t find especially credible in the first place, so much that you’re going to get incredibly down about this?” Hmm. I’m not really sure. I have odd feelings concerning this friend, feelings that are amicable the majority of the time and equally split between love, crush-style hero-worship and resentment for the remainder. Chuck Klosterman once remarked, “Every relationship is fundamentally a power struggle, and the individual in power is whoever likes the other person less.” Well, in this case, perhaps these comments perturbed me so much because I am far from the party in power in this relationship. Do I care so much to conform myself to one individual’s views of my life? Well, to some extent, I obviously do or I wouldn’t write this, but should I? I don’t even know. I’ve asked myself this for a long time, and I’m not sure I’ll ever find the answer until circumstances decide for me.

But this assumes that the credibility of the statement hinges entirely on my friend’s word. It doesn’t. Somewhere deep inside, as much as I’d like to deny it, a small piece of me believes it too. Believes that I should be living not just for contentment but notorious and thrilling happiness. Believes that I can break out from a relatively cheery relative isolationism to have a broad, awesome tale of transcendence. I’m not sure this is possible, but part of me feels like it’s something worth trying for, even if it costs me something…something I’ve been granted in the status quo that gets me through most of the nights.

In the words of the masterful Carson Sestili, “To be honest, I am feeling lonely now.” I’m just not sure who exactly I want to fix that with.

And I don’t need you.
No, I don’t need you…

- Jimmy Eat World, “Yer Feet”

- Alkaline Trio, “Enjoy Your Day”

I agree with that philosophy. I believe the process justifies the end. If the interim period is bliss, then it was worth it even if it all burns away in the end. We do what we need. It’s life, and it makes getting through better. And there are the memories that I wouldn’t trade for the world…I can think of far too many of them right now. The end not being some stereotypical “success” doesn’t scare me.

What scares me is that in the movie, there’s always another chance. And in life, the cycle runs out.

I remember the first time. The first beautiful days together, the first months where things fell away. I thought that was the end, and I acted like it. But like the flowers, it died in the winter to come to bloom again in the spring. The cycle continued. Days again…God, I’ll love Children 18:3 forever for reasons that have nothing to do with their music…Days apart again. I didn’t think that would repeat. But now I know. It’s life. There are more important things in life — at least, more pressing things in life. We have different goals, locations, circles of interest…different everything except personalities, which are far too similar.

It will continue. And that’s why tonight I just wanted to forget it. When all I could feel was the urge to pick up a phone and use the number etched in my fingers and my muscle memory and, conversely, the fear that it wouldn’t do any good. That there wasn’t time, or there wasn’t a point, or there wasn’t really anything to say. I know that even if it blossoms again it will die in the winter. And right now it’s the winter, and I have to feel like I should be doing something without any sign that this is indeed the case. And I have to long for this…I have to want something more than my life here, which would be fine if I could be content with it. I wouldn’t feel lonely now if I hadn’t felt something extraordinary before. And I thought if I could forget the exhilaration, the total captivation that still haunts me, I could just leave it all behind and be happy with everything that comprises my current existence.

But now I don’t want that. I’m still shooting for the moon. And I don’t have a problem with ultimate failure. I just wish I would be able to keep trying forever. But I know that some time — maybe even this time — it will be the last time. And then I will try to make it work inside my own head forever with no chance of bettering the world around me.

And when I’m out of second chances, then I might as well have forgotten.

I really hate Twilight.

I think it’s pretty nearly accurate to say that the Twilight series (is that what it’s properly called?) is currently the biggest entertainment powerhouse in America. The movie that opened yesterday (I think) will probably gross hundreds of millions of dollars this weekend alone. The books have sold twenty million copies in the states. I haven’t boarded an airplane in three months without seeing someone carrying one of the books. And that’s like four airplanes. So yeah. In case you’ve been living under a very large rock, this proves it: Twilight is huge.

It’s also a piss-poor book, from what I’ve seen. The characters, outside of the two you’ve heard of and maybe two or three others, are all totally disposable. The narrator dismisses them offhand and attributes to them a range of emotions and behavior patterns that doesn’t quite measure up to the mature autonomy of most cattle. Her friends and parents are all total wastes of type.

I’m sort of glad they’re included in the book, though, because without them, the narrator might try to spend more time describing her world, which would be bad, because the world of Forks through the eyes of Bella is not only boring as hell, but it barely even exists; the whole place is only a relation to her teenage angst-filled state of mind. I mean, compare the playground scene at the beginning of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix to any scene where Bella is at school and Edward isn’t around. There’s no comparison. The former uses peripheral characters with a vivid setting to compile a witty and nearly sympathy-inducing vignette. The latter is something like this: “I went to school. I sat with my friends, whom I don’t really like and view with total condescension even though I’m just a whiny teenager. I hate gym class ’cause I fall down. Then I drove home.” This is, to put it bluntly, pathetic. A decent editor should have chopped out nearly everything in the book before the vampire plot takes hold, because none of it is remotely interesting or even avoids being totally nauseating.

So Stephanie Meyer isn’t exactly a visionary here. Her book is not good literature. My debate partner picked up the book, read for about three minutes, put it down and remarked, “It’s pretty poorly written.” And she’s totally right. But that doesn’t really stop Twilight from being enjoyable. That’s not why I hate Twilight. And that’s not why Twilight is dangerous. The answer to that question lies a little deeper.

From the first pages of Twilight, we get to know Bella Swan pretty well. This doesn’t take long. Her parent situation is rough. She’s moving to a small town where not much happens and she doesn’t have any friends. The friends she does have, as already mentioned, are portrayed as total wastes of oxygen. She’s mad sometimes, and sad sometimes, and insecure pretty much all the time. This is poor writing, as a character should always be either realistic or likable, and she’s not really either, but if that’s the part the author wanted to write because that’s the best story she thought she could make, okay.

But is that why? I doubt it. Postmodern kids have spent the last few years on Simple Plan and Good Charlotte (“look at my clothes/all black/look at my life/all black”) and, when that became uncool, My Chemical Romance and Dashboard Confessional. (Hell, even all of Kelly Clarkson’s major hits are about being alone!) We revel in being alone and relationally challenged. We revel in perceiving most of the events in our lives as trivial and unfulfilling. Either Ms. Meyer empathizes with that, in which case she should probably grow up a bit more, or else she wanted to make a book that would sell and thus chose a postmodern teenager as her main character. And this is where Twilight becomes an object of contempt.

Bella doesn’t just find her life boring. Bella finds her existence meaningless. She spends every single moment of the first six chapters of this novel engaged in self-deprecation and self-loathing. The whole book is based on the premise that Bella, while described as a charming, intelligent, reasonably kind, good-looking person, needs to escape from herself. The implication comes up again and again that there is nothing special or interesting about her, despite the fact that she, by all accounts, would be a pretty amazing girl. She views everything about herself and everything about the life that she lives as totally worthless.

And Edward Cullen is her transcendence. Every existentialist needs some way to transcend. For Sartre, it was art. For Einstein, it was scientific understanding. For Bella Swan, it’s getting Edward Cullen to like her, to rescue her from boredom and self-hatred. This may not have been totally intended, but with the one-sided writing behind everything but Edward, and given Bella’s intense hatred of everything else that comprises her life, readers see that Edward Cullen is more and more the only thing Bella Swan has to live for.

Fuck that shit.

Bella is beautiful and vibrant. Bella is talented and intelligent (a scene in science class proves this). She’s a pretty solid friend, she’s fun, and she’s awkward in an endearing way. Fuck any system of values that says transcendence of her unhappiness must depend on the opinion of anyone else. Her life has value without a self-destructive overarching love narrative, and she honestly doesn’t seem to believe this. She makes a one-dimensional character out of herself when really she’s the one we ought to be interested in, regardless of whether or not she dates someone who wants to slit her throat with his teeth.

And it’s sad, because I wouldn’t give a damn if it was just about a story. But it isn’t. Whether through calculated posturing for sales or through a drastic misunderstanding of the value of teenage kids, Ms. Meyer has created societal archetypes from her characters to you and I. This is nothing new from fantasy novel fads; look at the “Which Harry Potter Character Are You?” quizzes for proof. But those novels created heroes, and, what’s more, heroes not for what they could do but for who they were. Harry Potter isn’t a hero because he can cast Expelliarmus pretty fast. He’s a hero because he’s brave, loyal, and merciful. We feel like we could be Harry Potter, because in our better moments, we pretty much already are — only without wands.

But the Twilight archetype is of a much different nature. There is no Bella archetype without her “wand,” without her love story…at least, none that we want to embody. The Bella archetype without the story is one of hatred and escapism, one that puts oneself down and tears oneself apart emotionally day after day. And it’s one that people see as descriptive of them. That’s why Twilight is dangerous: it celebrates a new kind of teenage girl, one who doesn’t have any value in herself. One who can’t see the beauty underneath the circumstances, so she becomes an emotional prostitute, using love as a desperate try for security and meaning.

I am Edward Cullen. Or, at least, I was this summer. My “Bella” told me so once. She said she was Bella…stupid, awkward, boring…and that I was her Edward. What she was saying was, in effect and more concretely put, that a combination of fucked-up self-image and a boring small-town, homeschooled, dreary mess of a daily life had left her with a meaningless existence, and that I was her transcendence.

This is why I haven’t thrown away Twilight. In some respects, I still need it. I’m one of those stupid romantic people who see symbols in things, and for some reason, giving up on Twilight now feels like I’m giving up on my relationship with her, which has dwindled away to pretty much nothing. So I keep it on my shelf and occasionally take it down for something to say in emails I won’t send, because that’s the only thing we have in common anymore…so it’s the only thing I can cling to.

But that very fact proves that Twilight is total shit. I did not deserve this person at all. She was miles, light-years out of my league. She’s creative, intelligent, considerate, sensitive, and drop-dead fucking gorgeous. I am generally a hyper-self-aware, distant, selfish, oft-arrogant, prosaic, only reasonably attractive (and that might be overstating it) prick. My only particularly good quality in whatever it was exactly that we shared was that I saw how great she is. That shouldn’t have been nearly enough. But because of the Twilight archetype (or perhaps in reflection of it), that was all that it took. She needed me, and she shouldn’t have. She is more meaningful then I could ever know, let alone mandate. It sickens me that she didn’t realize it.

Fortunately, things have seemingly worked out okay. She found her way out — college just far enough from home, ironically a measure with which she credited me at the time — and she doesn’t need me anymore. I don’t regret that at all. Like John Cusack after Catherine Zeta-Jones breaks up with him in High Fidelity, I know some people are just too good for some other people, and not only did I not deserve her, I was a fool to think I could ever be right for her. That’s life, and everything’s fine, I think.

But the tragedy is that she’s not alone. Many archetypal teenage girls presumably fall for archetypal teenage escapes to get out of themselves. They can’t accept who they are or see that who they are is beautiful. And that is Ms. Meyer’s fault, because as long as this bullshit existential theory is propagated and reinforced, amazing people will continue to believe they aren’t worth a damn. We need works of art that can stand against this and break the cycle for the sake of the youth of today and tomorrow. And this series is not one of them.

That’s why I fucking hate Twilight.

So here’s the disclaimer: it’s not really that good. I’m not an especially great singer (although apart from the two times my voice cracks and the few notes that are rather out of my range, it actually sounds relatively decent), I mess up the lyrics a few times, and the recording is hardly professional. A friend and I recorded it in half an hour essentially. One vocal take, one (mediocre) acoustic guitar take, a GarageBand shaker, and a couple measures of lead guitar mixed in a couple times. See, kids! Anyone can be a rock star!

That said, I’d feel really happy if you listened. I think it’s a relatively solid song (though maybe not in this ghetto acoustic demo form). It’s slightly sophomoric, but not that much compared to most of the crap about breakups that comes out these days. And it’s pretty catchy…can’t be modest on that count.

This song is called “Beechwood and Dragon Heartstrings.” Lyrics and explanation are on the blog; listen on PureVolume.com. Feedback, whether positive, negative, or totally disgusted, is appreciated.

Thanks for being awesome, friends. And thanks to Stephen Six.