Nothing gets my goat like reading vampire novels. They’re kind of like train wrecks for me. I feel like I have some kind of obligation to read every stupid volume of vampire idiocy that some fool-tard publisher wasted paper and ink on. They’re always painful for me to endure, seeing as nobody ever writes a vampire novel about a short, fat, dumpy, blind kid tricked into immortality in his fat, adolescent, useless body with no hopes of escape. I think secretly I want to relate to some fictional character. I know there are other unfortunate kids tricked the same way I was, but who or where they are will most likely remain a secret from me forever. I know I will try my hardest to make sure they never know where I am.
One might expect something of a breakfast club hangout for those of us who were tricked into this terrible situation. A place where we can all gather up and revel in our mutual misery. Fact is that I don’t think I could even imagine where to begin the hunt for another unfortunate soul who shares my condition. Even if I did know where to find one, I doubt I would talk to them. The same fears of normal friends also apply to other vampires, afflicted with similar conditions or not. Imagine how bad it would be to be an enemy of another screwed over vampire. We probably have the same paranoia. Same weaknesses. I might wake up completely rolled in duct tape, suspended upside down in a basement with the upper half of my body submerged in an oil drum filled with piss. I could be there for years.
In fact, that very fear might make for a good novel. Good by my standards, that is. I’m sick of reading about impossibly gorgeous creatures of irresistible seduction and the throng of stunning, naive women who fall for their fangy, sexy silliness. Twinkling in the sun? Come on. How would that even be possible? Even in my condition I am amazed about the ridiculous things people come up with just to be different.
If I had to pick on one thing typical to vampire stories it would definitely be the super speed. I find it funny that everyone seems to add this into their stupid book. Speaking scientifically, the human body already regenerates, albeit on a much smaller, less noticeable scale, so the wicked curse I soak in every painful day could be seen as a colossally over-driven natural regeneration that could be possible in some place like the Twilight Zone. But super speed? The laws of gravity make that impossible for physical beings with our mass. It’s not like we’re photonic or something. We are the same hulk of meat and feces that everyone else is, just somehow impossible to destroy. Yeah, I can’t explain that. But I can tell you that the only thing making me twinkle in the sun is the sheet of sweat spilling from my fat.
I sleep, just like everyone else, except that most everyone else enjoys their sleep and dreams of pleasant things. Not me. My dreams are definitely better than my reality, but they are still just as morbid and not really worth mentioning. I actually can’t remember the last time I had a dream that was fulfilling, enchanting, or in any way inspiring. It may be possible that I never truly fall asleep and any dream I have is really an insomniac like state of mind roving over pseudo fictional scenarios devoid of real imagination. It seems like I sleep though, so I have to assume I do eventually pass out, even if it is only for consecutive short periods of time.
It’s just plain ridiculous to write in the transmogrification into a bat or cloud of smoke. And believe me, when I say any concept of the vampire lore is ridiculous, you know it has to be truly ridiculous. I’ve lived the brutal reality of the vampire curse long enough to know what is and is not possible. Sadly, there isn’t a whole lot that is a reality. At least not for me. Because of this, my bitterness keeps me from even considering the rest of the missing elements are even remotely possible or believable, and in no way belong in a book.
Of course there is also the possibility that time delivers the myth. I am, after all, quite young in the typical lifespan of the hopelessly immortal. Though my fatness hinders my speed today the same way it did 34 years ago, I suppose it is possible that a thousand years from now I will have somehow discovered how to sling my fat from side to side to gain a few extra steps per minute. Still pretty sure it won’t help me move like they describe in these books.