"Gateway Drug"

So I'm shopping the other day in "Metaphors 'R Us" and in typical Mama C fashion, the first place I head for is the clearance rack. I'm pawing through a bin of symbolism cast-offs when I come across an awesome one. "Twilight is Like Marijuana." You like? Good, because I bought it specifically to use for this blog entry. And damn, it was cheap...like 75% off.

Coincidentally, I ran into Steph Meyers there. She was trying to return the "Bella is Like Heroin" metaphor, but she didn't have her receipt. Pity. She's lookin' good though. Dropped a few pounds. She said to tell you all hello.

It occured to me while I was sorting through my list of recent DvD acquisitions, that Twilight really has been my "gateway drug". It's been harmless, really. Just a little, innocuous vice, like smokin' weed. I watch it once or twice a week and it relaxes me. Makes me all hooded-eyelids mellow & chilled out. Nothing wrong with that, I mean, nobody gets hurt, right?

Wrong.

Turn it over, and there is a dark, diseased underbelly to this seemingly harmless little habit. Initially just a recreational activity, Twilight has lead to some much more gripping addictions.

Sure, at first I rationalized that my need was under control. Yes, I have all of the books. I own the Twilight movie on Blu-Ray with a digital copy on my I-pod, and well....I talk about it on my YouTube Channel and then there's this blog. And my den. And my Cullen Car Collection. And my puppy I named Bella. And the wallpaper on my office PC. But that's it! That's all there is. It's not controlling my life or anything. I've got this.

Or so I thought.

Eventually, Twilight wasn't enough. I was constantly craving more. More of something. More of....him. Still, I couldn't admit it to myself. Instead, I went out in search of this:

I didn't have the capacity to understand it, and I didn't fucking care. I was literally trippin'. Straight up, hallucinogenic fantasies. Those lips curled around a cigarette...that perfect face in never-ending close-up shots, those ridiculously long fingers gripping bedsheets. Shit...I was on the Psychadelic Express train to Robtopia. But once I stepped off, I was confused as fuck. And not...not...satisfied.

Luckily, not soon after, came this:

Easy enough to get for a while...I mean, it was IN THEATERS. They wouldn't make it so legally available to me if it weren't safe, right? Until of course, it wasn't in theatres anymore. That's when I descended into the underground. I had to resort to a seedy torrent download to get my fix. I rationalized that since I had paid to see it 10 times on the straight & narrow, just a little tiny hit on my laptop meant nothing. I needed it to keep me focused. Sharp. On task.

Until this:

And with this....my soul spiraled down into the deep, dark, unsavory world of irreversible Robddiction. I hadn't expected to like this one as much as I did. But the temptation was irresistable and when I finally gave in, no one was more shocked than I was that I liked it. I liked it a whole lot. I mean...he man-snogs and touches himself for fuck's sake. I couldn't have stopped myself from repeated doses of that for all the lip-biting in Stewtopia.

By now, the dealers know me. My wallet and I are welcomed with open arms and wide smiles. "Why yes, Mama...we've got just what you need. In fact, there's a shipment of some exciting new stuff coming on March 12th."

Holy Mary, Mother of Rainbow Pretty Pharmaceuticals, it's a full on Rob Rave. Pass the blinky pacifiers and glowing necklaces baby, 'cause I am all over that shit like Calvin Klein's on Kellan's package.

Of course, eventually, even the X won't be enough. I'll need some hard stuff. Some rated "R" stuff. Some...the-boy-is-a-French-man-whore-and-fucks-a-woman-MY-AGE-on-a-chair stuff. The kinda stuff you just don't recover from without professional help. THIS, will be my rock Rob bottom.

Intervention time, you say?

I am telling you, I won't go.

EVER.

Because I really do have this under control.

I don't need help.

I don't want help.

Help me.