Letter to Stephanie Meyer (#1)

Dear Ms. Stephanie Meyer,
STOP. This is the main message I need to get across. I have tried to read the book 'Twilight' probably four separate times, and each time I am more disappointed with how talentless you really are. Now, I realize that some of you are going to get angry because, "hey, she's sold tonnes of copies, she must be doing something right!" But you're wrong. It has nothing to do with what Ms. Meyer's doing, and everything to do with what the general masses are. Which is enjoying crap.
Let's start with the basics. Okay, beautiful teenage girl falls in love with mysterious, dangerous monster/man. Where have I heard that before? Beauty and the Beast, Underworld. That's two off of the top of my head.
Yes, I realize that it would be silly to accuse you of making up the mysterious romance that vampires apparently possess. Just crack open Bram Stoker's original vampire novel, 'Dracula', and you can sift out that Mina Harker is definitely horny for the Undead Master of Evil, but it isn't really her choice. Dracula feeds some of his own blood to her, which causes her to have raunchy thoughts, particularly about him.
Another piece of popular vampire fiction I'd like to compare to your works is the television show 'True Blood' (based on the 'Southern Vampire' series by Charlaine Harris). In this show/novel, the vampires are very sexual creatures. Main bloodsucker Bill Compton falls deeply in love with annoyingly talkative barmaid/waitress Sookie Stackhouse. But this show easily explains why their romance is possible and Bill doesn't simply view Sookie as a tasty blood-filled snack. Synthetic blood, folks! Explained as the creation of Japanese scientists, 'TruBlood' fulfills all of the vampires nutritional needs and comes in a handy, no-need-to-hunt bottle. Therefore, Bill is able to fill his mouth with Sookie's moist, warm, dripping.... uhh.... tongue? Instead of her blood. Wonderful.
Now, let's examine the work itself. There really isn't much to say. Two-dimensional characters, over used and rather predictable plot, annoying whiny teenage characters, and of course, a love triangle. All in all, a pretty terrible read, and I urge anyone that has a brain in their head not to bother trying to give it a chance like I did.
Oh yeah, Mr. Taylor Lautner? Next time the script tells you to take your shirt off, DON'T. If I see one more pre-teen girl drooling over a picture of you in "Teen Fuck-Up" magazine, I swear to God I'll start biting their throats and drinking their blood.

Sincerely your friend,
Sean.

P.S. True Blood is one of my favourite shows.
P.S.S. For all of you adults that enjoy the Twilight series, SHAME ON YOU.

fuck, tomorrow's Wednesday already

So I saw Inception for the second time tonight. For those of you who've already seen it, let me tell you, it's just as clusterfuck-mind blowing-asshole-ball exploding as the first time you saw it. You will shit your pants and cream in your boxers all over again. Won't give away anything and spoil the surprise for you other cavemen that haven't gotten up off of your boulder around the campfire to go see it, but make sure you do in the near future.
Now let's move on to the boring auto-biographical part of this blog. My girlfriend got a promotion at her job! Whoopadeedoodledoodledoo! But seriously, I'm quite happy for her. And so should you be. (that's right, I started a sentence with 'and'. Fuck you.)
In other news, I plan on starting a whole new crazy variation to this blog called "Letters To ______". This will be a fun little thing where I write 'letters' to different people. No, these 'letters' will not be actually sent. they are for entertainment purposes only. And for those of you wondering, yes, I got this idea from the Henry Rollins show. This is because I am too lame and do not have enough worldly-experience to think up my own ideas. Get over it.
So you better get ready, because pending my highly busy and complicated schedule, I may post my very first "Letters To _______" tonight! Oh my goodness!
Anyways, that's all for this blog entry. Hopefully talk to you losers tonight (although it will in the form of a letter to someone else, so it won't be actually to you. You understand).
Later.

Wash my dishes!!!!!!!!

Good evening terdballs! I recently began a new job at an all day breakfast restaurant washing peoples' dishes and scrubbing their tables, and let me tell you, people are FILTHY (myself included). And they waste like hell. I could eat three square meals a day for a month with the food I've scraped into the garbage of stranger's plates for one shift. Fuck.
Anyways, on a happier note, the work is easier, and I get along quite well with all my coworkers. Isn't that just fucking spectacular? I bet you're all riveted to know that.
A friend of mine sent me a script the other day. he writes scripts and for the most part, they become short films made by himself and a few other friends (sometimes me!). It had an interesting concept. A woman is dying, and people continuously approach her and congratulate her because she is passing away and surely moving on to a great afterlife in Heaven. I won't get into it and explain the entire thing because it's very long and complex and time consuming (and mostly because I'm lazy and don't care about you), but essentially you get the feeling that the people are so excited to die and get to Heaven that they no longer really place value in human life or enjoy our time on Earth. Interesting, no?
I work with a guy, and he was saying today that he had to go to Church after work. He work 8 hours today, and was complaining about how he didn't want to go to Church, but he had too. He said he was going to sleep through it. What the fuck is the point of going to worship something if you're going to sleep through your mandated weekly worship time? If you don't want to go, just don't. Stay home and sleep. I'm sure God will understand. Of course, the Holy Church might not, they missed their opportunity to lecture you and collect your donation to a worthy cause.
I'm going to bed. Until next time darlings. Hugs and Kisses.