Edward, I would love to spend some time with you, but you suck … literally.
Edward, you’re strong and everything, but you’re just not real. You’re a figment of a woman’s imagination created to make women swoon and hope that there’s such a creature as you: protective, adoring, dependable, gentle, powerful, hopelessly and madly in love, and dangerous. Women could almost never resist a strong being turned into putty in their hands.
Twilight and its series may be the usual “dark Prince Charming coming to rescue the damsel (everyone likes and everyone loves to hate) in distress” that adds adventure to women’s mundane lives. You, Edward, are the kind fairy tales are made of. You go to any lengths out of adoration, when most mortal males just suck. Next to your pale skin, mortal males pale even more. What guy could compete with you? No one, save for Jacob, the hot-blooded werewolf, who insists to be first and tries his utmost best to overpower your hold on women.
So much strength in your seemingly frail body, Edward. So much hunger and love from your cold features. Everything else about you in the outside is cold. But your eyes … so expressive and warm. Your lips, those full red lips that are either ready to kiss or suck the life out of us, could bring out such mushy words wrapped and dragged in a lazy, velvety voice. You’re the exact type a poet like me would blush at out of embarrassment. I would hide under a table if I could. But they fall for your words, Edward, those women.
But, Edward, why Bella?
Does the new girl always get to be the center of attention? Why does everybody fight over and for her? She stands out like mud in sand with her lonesome aura.
It’s her blood, other vampires would say. It’s her being, you and Jacob say. You love mystery, Edward, and deny it if you can, but you do love Bella’s blood as well.
Edward Cullen, you’re beautiful in sunlight; you gleam like the diamonds I dream about, while the only two things that gleam on Jacob are the sweat on his human chest and the fangs on his cuddly dog face that fails to scare me. But you, Edward, you scare me as I look at your hissing face. You look constipated. I worry over you. And you’re so pale, you remind me of the Joker in the cartoon version of Batman. God forbid that you two are related.
Why do I keep questioning why people go gaga over you and Jacob, the same way I ask myself why I can’t bring myself to be the least bit attracted to Brad Pitt?
Why do some women prefer you over warm, strong-willed Jacob?
But, Edward, you’re a dream. You float while Jacob pounds the ground with his heavy paws. You are gentleness itself, while Jacob is roughness wrapped in cotton balls.
Women created you to fantasize over. Men created you to be fantasized about, to keep women dreaming. Oh, how they glorify their power over women, all the maleness of them.
But, Edward Cullen, you don’t exist. You’re just two six-lettered words placed side by side. You start with an “e” for extremity, enamor, and escape, and end with an “n” for end. You’re Ed in the ward callin’ for me.
Still, Edward, as perfect as you seem to be, perfection is your one dangerous flaw. Being an undead, you just do not exist.
In the real world, women have to fend for themselves while some Edwards and Jacobs are either cowards and playing or are just plainl wrong. In the real world, women get hit by a car. And rare are the men who would offer women seats on a bus, much more carry women on their backs to see the world; men carry women usually to take them to bed.
In the real world, women have to be either beautiful and charming to get noticed. In the real world, women have to wear sexy clothes or have gleaming skin to be fought over.
In the real world, all those things mentioned are minor realities of a bigger reality. In the real world, the thin line that divides women and men is further thinning. In the real world, you almost cannot judge by gender.
In the real world, responsibilities and material needs sometimes push love away. In real life, love sometimes loses. But maybe not for you, Edward; you’ve lived twice and lived decades (maybe hundreds?). Mortals only live once. Mortals could only live slightly above one hundred years.
Why, Edward, does this fascination over the undead never seem to die for us mortals? I already answered this in the previous paragraphs yet still … why?
Mr. Edward Cullen, you’re an ambitious dream. But better dream than nothing.
Dream on, mortal.