In case you haven't picked up on it, I've had a change of heart. With each new movie, I've come to like the series less—which is odd, because most people have grown to like the films progressively better.
Perhaps it's the mood I've been in (I joke about Seasonal Affective Disorder, but I might not be that far off the mark; when sun worship seems like a logical religious outlook, you know you're feeling S.A.D.), but Noah's repeated inquiries as to whether I want to watch Eclipse on Blu-ray (he's remarkably supportive) have garnered little more than a pathetic veneer of enthusiasm from me, an assent with the inflection of a question mark on the end. "Ummm....yeah?"
I know it's counterintuitive to say I'm trying to be less annoying by watching the Twilight saga, but that's how deep this goes. We're reaching unplumbed depths of emotional complexity here, folks. So Noah pops Eclipse in the player, and I have to suppress a gag as the chiseled, exquisitely tortured visages of Edward, Bella and Jacob appear on screen. I am so Team Jacob, I think, before realizing that I'm actually Team Doesn't-Give-a-Fig-Just-Get-the-Melodrama-Out-of-My-Face-or-Give-Kristen-Stewart-a-Zoloft-or-Preferably-Both.
Needless to say, we didn't watch Eclipse. "How about we look for a comedy on Netflix?" Noah asks. "I mean, yeah," I reply reluctantly, "but what if it's not that good? I'm just really in a mode where I'm expecting disappointment."
There've been a lot of minor aggravations this past week that would be easier to handle with some naturally occurring vitamin D supplementation. Late deliveries, broken appliances, unresponsive dudes representing institutions that've got us by the moneysacks. If only my overcast worries centered on being too beautiful, or so much in love that it hurts and the pain shows on my face.
Alas, the only grimacing I'm doing relates to constipation. And that, my friends, is an inconvenient truth.