Twilight: Fuglispe


If you follow astrology, you know that this weekend is an eclipse the likes of which astrologers haven’t seen in centuries, which has led all of the ones I read to do things like send emails that say, for example, “in case you forgot this when you read it at the beginning of the month, WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE THIS WEEK THE ECLIPSE MY GOD THE ECLIPSE I’M NOT 100% SURE BUT ALL YOUR LIVES WILL PROBABLY BE IN RUINS. Also, this is a great time to get pregnant.” (My horoscopes have been trying to knock me up lately, too.) But I think I’ve figured it out. It’s not the eclipse that is ruining lives. It’s Eclipse. Like poor Elizabeth Reaser’s:

She and I are basically the exact same age, which is why I feel very comfortable saying to her: listen, honey. You can pull this dress off. But you HAVE TO GO UP A SIZE. Something this short and this tight is unseemly after a certain point and you and I are both past it. When your slip has scooted up so far your legs that the whole vampire-loving world can spy the juncture of your thighs, things have officially gone beyond the realm of what is appropriate for a grown-up. Give yourself an inch everywhere, and bask in the praise. And in being able to sit down. And breathe.

Also, I like you better with bangs.

That’s all.

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