Before “Twilight” Fanaticism Cursed Washington Forks Did

I hated Forks before it was popular to do so.

Image Courtesy of TheJibSheet
Image Courtesy of TheJibSheet

Back, long ago in the time before that asinine coagulation of fail known as “Twilight” hit the scene and made it popular to be ashamed of Forks, Wash., I hated Forks. I really, really hated Forks. And the great thing is, I had every reason too. Let me describe why…

When I was about 13, my dad, my sister, and I all decided it would be a good idea to go camping. This was not unusual. On the weekend we were to go camping, it started pissing down rain. Also, not unusual.

What was unusual was the fact that my dad decided it was too rainy to camp. Almost always, he insisted we carry through with going camping, through rain, snow, or meteor shower.

Which is why, in hindsight, it seems like fate conspired against me. Because we were all the way out on the Olympic Peninsula by the time night fell; we had to stay somewhere. The only rooms for rent in the entire town?

The Forks Motel.

Just thinking about that horrid, soul-crushing building makes my soul cry.

Upon entering the lobby, you are greeted by a woman who appears to be the same age as Leonardo Da Vinci, just not dead (kinda). And do you know what the room she stood in was coated, floor to ceiling, with?


Do you know how difficult it is to sleep with a room full of china dolls only a few feet away? “Child’s Play” has nothing on an entire room full of glassy-eyed, eternally staring, porcelain dolls. It was absolutely terrifying. But if that were all, the trip could have been salvaged.

The Crypt Keeper gave us our room key, and we stumbled, soaked, into room 4.

Let me set the scene…

For all I know, the wallpaper was actually a picture of an ancient satanic rite, for all that it was faded beyond all recognition. Were those splotches on the wall leaves, cats, or bodily fluids? I could not have told you.

Speaking of bodily fluids, the bed sheets were stiff. I don’t mean stiff like needs-some-fabric-softener stiff, I mean the damn things didn’t bend – at all. It was like sleeping with a sheet of plywood laying on top of you. Now that I think about it, I should have propped that blanket up against the door.

Why, you ask? Because the door didn’t lock. That’s right. We were in the middle of hicksville, feet away from the Army of Cursed Dolls, with a DOOR THAT DIDN’T GODDAMN LOCK.

Not only did that door not lock, but the bathroom door didn’t even close. The doorjamb had shifted so that it was impossible to close the door, and it had caused the hinges to tilt so that if you let go of the knob, it would open as wide as it could go. So in order to take a dump in peace, you had to hold the doorknob. The annoying part? There was no way in hell you could reach the knob. This left you with one of three options:

1) Hold it until tomorrow. Sure, you might break open like some sort of fecal piñata, but at least you didn’t take a dump in front of your family.

2) Have someone else hold the door. Of course, then they have to sit there and listen to you slay a fudge dragon.

3) Just have everyone look away and take a social crap. In other words, take a dump in front of your family.

All this built up to make a damn awful stay, but the final affront to my sensibilities was yet to come. Late that night, as I lay in bed, I stared at the ceiling in quiet terror (locks, dolls, etc.). As I lay there, praying to every deity I could think of to keep the dolls inanimate for the night, I noticed something above me.

It was something that the light pouring in the window (did I mention the flood light across from us, shining into our drape-less window?) just barely revealed. Something… fuzzy.

It turned out to be an enormous patch of grass-length mold dangling down from the ceiling just above my head. It looked like something out of an old alien movie, something that would devour my brains if given half a chance. Needless to say, I was unable to sleep that night.

Over the years, I have been alone in my hate for Forks. I would hear the town mentioned and say, “Forks? Oh man, I hate that fucking place.” Then of course (because nobody hated Forks) they would ask why. I would then regale them with the tale of horror and slimy roof creatures that I just told you. More recently, instead of asking me why I hate Forks, people just say, “I know, right? Stupid ‘Twilight.’”

No, damnit, hating Forks is my thing! Mine!

So that is why I hate “Twilight” even more than most. Not only is the series the author’s wet dream written down and the most horrendous thing to happen to the written word since the Nazi book burnings, but it took away my, shall we say, unique hatred. Damn you, “Twilight.” Damn you to hell.