It’s been a while since I’ve joined in on a non-movie cultural phenomenon. I skipped Harry Potter, and I’ve never really paid much attention to contemporary music or American Idol. (Do I feel bad for this? Not at all.)

But at the urging of a friend and on the strength of my curiosity, I cracked open the latest teen sensation Twilight, the first in a series by Stephanie Meyer. And I’m not sure I’m better for it.

But first, a random Twilight fact for those who are the least bit interested. The bulk of the story takes place in the Pacific Northwest in a small town named Forks. I, unlike most of the world, have been to Forks. In fact, they were in the same league as my high school, so I have played basketball inside their tiny gym. The thing I remember best about Forks—besides their rabid fans—was a sign over the entryway to their gym reminding students(!) to discard their chewing tobacco prior to entering. Seriously. And yes, this post is largely an excuse to tell that story.

Meyers’ novel is badly written, but like any writing, that’s not simply a function of her style. She didn’t give herself much plot to work with, as the central drama is about the blossoming relationship between Isabella and Edward, the latter of whom is…a vampire. And oh, what a drama. At least if you enjoy an ongoing self-reflection by two people who are in love, but have little else to say to each other.

Consider this bit of saccharine prose, as Edward plays the piano for Bella:

“I closed my eyes, shaking my head.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m feeling extremely insignificant.”

The music slowed, transforming into something softer, and to my surprise I detected the melody of his lullaby weaving through the profusion of notes.

“You inspired this one,” he said softly. The music grew unbearably sweet.

Unbearable, indeed. Edward’s playing is, apparently, no better opportunity for some healthy self-disclosure about Isabella’s insecurities. Nevermind the fact that he’s playing piano, and there might be something interesting to say about that. Yet this sort of self-consciousness (and always of the pseudo-deep variety) pervades their relationship.

Unfortunately, Meyer’s depiction of high school love is, on this point, devastatingly accurate. For most young people, their eroticism lacks substance. It has no matter—no depth. And no wonder—most young people do not have to deal with the daily responsibilities of bills, provisions, and shelter. As in Meyer’s novel, they have an enormous amount of time they have to do nothing together, which often causes the relationship to be turned inward and strips it of its interesting content.

Paying bills may be a burdensome task, but it is the substance of real life, and as such, is the fuel for love and a healthy relationship. If anything, the freedom from real responsibilities Meyer’s teens enjoy makes for nauseating reading rather than an enjoyable romance.