Yep: I've been reading the Twilight series. Busted. And of course, they're terrible, and surely my mind is more rotten for reading them, but - also of course - I totally loved them. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a love story. I may even be a Twihard.Okay, so maybe not, but I will admit to being a little preoccupied with all things vampire this week. For instance, I don't even know what happened during the staff meeting on Monday, because I spent the whole time deciding which of my coworkers would make good vampires. You know, if there really are vampires, I'll bet they're pretty pissed at Stephenie Meyer right now: "Can you believe it, Vlad? That stupid human just told me I wasn't hot enough to be a vampire!" Which more or less spills the beans on my criteria, but what the hell. I'm just going on the Cullen model here.
After I read The Road I spent some weeks considering whether I'd make good steaks - it's a good bet that I'm well marbled - and I've always felt that a superior brain such as my own would be much in demand for the zombie gourmand. So, uh - do I have some kind of buffet complex or what?
Actually, I think it's my deeply pragmatic streak coming through: it'd be like recycling. Or something.
But you know, taken from a completely cannibalistic viewpoint, we North Americans are a pretty delicious-sounding lot: generally pre-plucked and obsessively cleaned for reduced prep time on those busy weeknights, not to mention frequently tenderized (think massage therapy). And personally, at the moment I'm sporting a rather significant quantity of choco-coconut-pecan stuffing and am slathered in a lovely vanilla-almond marinade. Heck, I'd eat me.
Hm, maybe I'll go run my new product description by DH and see if he feels the same...
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