I, Lindsay Mecca, accept that I have a problem…with Robert Pattinson.
Two problems, actually.
1) I can’t get enough of him. Those eyebrows. The charisma. And, oh, that hair.
2) I can’t decide if I love him or hate him.
The first problem seems to resolve itself (or make itself worse, depending on your perspective) because HE IS EVERYWHERE. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a Rob Pattinson likeness in some form.
The second…well, that’s a tougher issue. On the one hand, he’s maybe the biggest tool in Hollywood (in and of itself a veritable toolbox) and I feel like I lose brain cells when I listen to him in interviews. (Though he’s not as bad as Kristen Stewart, who I liken to a gaping whole on the screen where an actress should be.) On the other…yum. To elaborate, Twilight was scarily engaging, largely due to him and his Brando-esque charisma. (Somewhere, Marlon Brando is rolling over in his grave…metaphorically, of course. He’s too fat to turn over fully in that tiny wooden box.)
Yikes, I am being mean in this post. For those of you who have never seen me mean, this is what it looks like.
Anyway, I see the faux-brooding and the questionable personal hygiene of the lanky, handsome Brit in question and think he is just asking for Meccanization. Then my heart flutters a bit and I find myself shelling out $3.95 for a copy of US Weekly (ok, fine, $19.95 for US, People, OK!, Life and Style and Teen Beat) and I am suddenly struck by a strong urge to self-Meccanize.