There is a thunderstorm coming up. It’s been about two years since I had a proper thunderstorm, but I’ve been watching the clouds settle over top of our house and listening to the thunder move closer and closer. Now the wind that precedes the rain has made way for the torrential downpour that precedes the real thunder and lightning show, and I’ve shut down the house – made it as silent as possible, and turned off all of the lights – and opened the back door so I can fully enjoy the experience.

Excellent. I have recorded some of it, which I may add later. Some bolt lightning, some chain lightning, the power went off twice, and some nice claps and rolls of thunder. Delicious!

But this wondrous, thunderous experience has put both me and my brother in mind of the dark, the dreary, the terrifying, the horrible. We began to brood on the most hideous examples of humanity. We began to talk of… the Twilight series. Oooh… a well timed thunderclap followed the typing of those words (I am not kidding, it really did).

Neither of us has read the books. Neither of us have any inclination to do so. But both of us nevertheless retain strong feelings of dislike towards them. There are certain plot points and character details that we find ask the reader to stretch his or her imagination far beyond the boundaries of willing suspension of disbelief. And considering that we both fully and eagerly suspended our disbelief in order to walk mentally and emotionally into the world of Harry Potter, Hogwarts, and witchcraft and wizardry (to say nothing of the many fantastical lands we willingly entered at the behest of Roald Dahl), that is saying something.

Look into the darkness of the world, and of your own soul.

We fell to discussing these points and details, and passing judgement upon them despite our almost overwhelming ignorance of the book, film, or anything else related to the Twilight franchise. For example: we have been led to believe that the main character… Edward? Edmund? Edwund? … whichever, that the main character is designed to be a 117 year-old virgin. We find this to be rather shocking, given the nearly preposterous lack of even any 17 year-old virgins that we are aware of. This is especially true of anyone who is intented to be as insanely good-looking as we have been lead to believe that this Edwund character is supposed to be. Most of the virgins that are outwith of their early 20’s that we know, or know of, are in no way dashing, brooding, Byronic-hero-wannabes who sparkle in the sunlight.

Which brought us round to another point: sparkling in the sunlight? This fellow is supposed to be some sort of vampyre, is he not? Which, if my extensive knowledge of vampyre lore (and repeated watchings of every episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and that 90’s movie with Brad Pitt) serves me correctly, should indicate a rather markedly different response to sunlight exposure, namely: burning, smoke, flames, and eventual death with the body reduced to naught but ashes. What is this sparkling bullshit?

Getting back to the whole 117 year-old virgin bent: how in the heck was this book not immediately outlawed as child pornography? In the UK, parent’s cannot have photos of their own children running about naked or bathing (which, I’d like to add, every parent has) without being accused of disseminating child porn, and yet, a 117 year-old man can sneak into a 16 year-old girl’s bedroom, watch her sleep, and then maintain a proto-sexual relationship with her without anyone raising an eyebrow? Can we point out that, however much those 100 years don’t show on his face, pedophilia and statutory rape are not decided based on how attractive the adult is: just because Johnny Depp is considered a dreamboat by legions of 14 year-old girls does not mean that he could have a relationship with any of them without it being completely and 100% perverted.

Of course, we did briefly consider the actual writing of the book, which, the internet assures us, is not of any particularly great quality, but dismissed that as a valid reason to detest the series. After all, people continue to purchase Stephen King’s books en masse, and he’s been writing fanciful, wannabe “artistic” prose since 1967. Clearly, talent has long since ceased to be the marker for popular literature, and we should therefore be cruel to hold Stephanie Meyer’s submissions to the crowd up to any such standards.

In the end, as the storm has now passed and the birds have returned, we decided to no longer occupy our minds with such dismal talk, and turned our thoughts to much lighter topics of discussion (chiefly bacon and chicken salad sammiches, which were in the process of construction). However, I think that when one travels down such a dark path – no matter for how short a period of time – it leaves an indelible impression upon them. It may not manifest physically, but an impression of the soul is always much stronger. Today was more than just the day that I got overly excited about a thunderstorm: today I turned my mind in a direction that it ought never to go, and never again shall I muse on such dark and confusing subjects.