Dear Twilight Freaks,

(While reading this, keep in mind that somewhere inside her New Orleans mansion, Anne Rice is pulling her fucking hair out)

Hey Twilight freaks, get a fucking grip.

So, it appears that Kristen Stewart may in fact be a dirty, little whore.

The pictures of her butt snuggling with a married man were not photo shopped and she actually admitted cheating on her vampire boyfriend Robert.

Hold the fucking phone!!!

How could she do such a dastardly thing?  How could she betray such a wonderful vampire????

WHO FUCKING CARES!!!!  Holy shit people, get a fucking life already.

VAMPIRES ARE NOT REAL.  I repeat, VAMPIRES ARE NOT REAL.

But don’t freak out too much, for all you know Stephanie Meyer may have added this plot twist for the next movie.

I know how difficult it can be for people to separate reality from movies, but the vampire world is a very intricate one.

On page 37 of The Vampires are Probably Real handbook; it states that “reality is truly the creation of the believer.”

So wipe those tears away, clean up that runny nose and text all your friends that there could be a new Vampire Rising.

What could that mean you ask?  Duh, what if Kristen bit that guy she cheated on Robert with?  That means he’s a vampire now.

Holy Shit, now all you freaks have to decide on Team Edward, Team  Jacob or Team Cheater Guy.

Oh dear, I can smell your desperation and it reeks.

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4 thoughts on “Dear Twilight Freaks,

  1. I will admit that I don’t care.

    But this kind of stuff is important in-that if it ends up on the National Enquirer at the supermarket check out line and there is no ugly baby around with milky foam coming out it’s mouth… it will give the amorphous-bodied white woman with faded capri jeans and fatigued flip-flops something to be interested in while they wipe the condensation off their Skinny Cow ice cream with concern that it might thaw out on the way home before she stops at the other 9 places she has planned so she can brag about how she saved 27 cents of fuel when she finally gets home and realizes that they forgot to put the day-glow orange “Paid” sticker on her economy pack of paper towels and her equally repulsive friends obsess about how lucky she is that no one (17 year old stoned cart boy?) disputed whether they were paid for or not on her 20 yard trip to the car.

    (Can’t figure out how to punctuate that)

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