Gentlemen, I suggest we are not missing anything:
Gosh, my palms are sweating even now as I prepare to write his name. I am not a teenager, but a happily married 37-year-old. And yes, I have fallen madly, painfully, utterly in love with Robert Pattinson, along with ten million other women…. I can understand exactly why a crowd of 5,000 frenzied girls queued for hours in London’s Battersea Park on Wednesday to get a glimpse of him (while he was promoting the release of Twilight’s sequel, New Moon), just as it is perfectly clear to me why he was chased into the path of an taxi by a stampede of women in New York.
Of course, I am not the kind of person who’d ever normally consider writing ‘Bite me’ on my forehead, as one girl did on Wednesday, or scream my head off at some actor, but I would have gone to Battersea Park – if only I could have got a babysitter. Instead, I’ve been sleeping with the December issue of Vanity Fair, which features Pattinson as a cover boy, under my pillow, much to my husband’s mirth.
If that’s the real world, then by all means, count me out. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off racking up head shots in MW:2 for the next few hours.