I actually had another post planned for this week, but last night changed that.
I did a bad, bad thing.
Throwing caution and my own trepidation to the wind, I succumbed to social pressure and, in a terribly misguided attempt to get the cool kids to like me, double-clicked season one, episode one of The Vampire Diaries.
What a fool I was.
I honestly don’t know what I was expecting. Twilight? More pasty-faced cheerleaders pretending to be Goths, forced teenage angst and inappropriately drawn out silences that would have Woody Allen gnawing through his own wrists. (Ah yes, and shots of wrists. Lots of shots of pale, pulsing wrists and necks because, you know, they’re like boobs to vampires.)
At worst, I suspected, it would be another mediocre retelling of the nerd romance myth. The different, troubled, introspective, unquestionably brilliant yet vastly misunderstood, loner girl (who, by a wonderful, convenient fluke, is also smoking hot) becomes the romantic obsession of a several-century old geezer with the face of a Hugo Boss model and the body of Kate Moss.
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| Seriously, which one is the vampire? |
Oh, and she loves art. Did we mention that she loves art? She really… fucking… loves… art. And poetry. And sunsets. And she cares about Darfur, and she knows where it is! And she doesn’t drink. And she plays instruments… like, four. And she can name every single classical composer and identify their most obscure works after hearing only a spilt second snippet of oboe solo while tied up, submerged in jam, with a howling cat stapled to her forehead.
Also, she probably wears glasses.
She is Hipster God.
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| Organs on the outside. Conform with that, bitches. |
