(( I don't own Twilight. That little... privilege(?!) belongs to one Stephenie Meyer))
It would consummately only ever happen to me. Today, I was almost hit by a van and I nearly died.
Of embarrassment. Shame. Pure mortification. Discomposure. Distress. Impecuniosity.
Because I almost got hit by a stupid, dingy blue van. Piloted by one Tyler Crowley. Because of him, I had to wear a neck brace. A neck brace, of all the most terrifying and ghastly things to wear around the neck! I was in emotional agony, but I wasn't hurt.
My ravishing, pulchritudinous, marvelous, grand, handsome, exquisite, delicate, dazzling, angelic, symmetrical, resplendent and utterly foxy Edward saved me. Which, truth be told, kind of pisses me off, because he totally wishes that he left me under the van to be paral- er, killed. Crushed. Squished. Desecrated.
I know I'm being too... inquisitive, and that it's probably going to get me killed, but that's perfectly OK. I am grateful to Edward- why wouldn't I be? But he needs to be honest with me.
How could he have lifted a van off of me? How did he move across the parking lot so fast? Why did his siblings look annoyed that he had saved me? Why didn't they like me like everyone else? And why do they get to be pretty and rich? I think I have some bad karma for putting a cat up a tree when I was ten. It would explain Edward not being honest with me.
But it doesn't explain the neck brace. Nothing will ever, ever explain the neck brace.