Joe Vampire - By Steven Luna Page 0,3
everyone the horror of interacting with the sub-human ghoul you’ve turned into.
The other kind of alone happens when you become a vampire.
See how that is? Two entirely different alones.
Actually, that’s just lame. There's only one definition: alone means alone. It doesn’t matter what kind of disconnected loser you become. And though it may not be much fun staying at arm's length from practically everyone, it hurts a hell of a lot less than the alternative. If you’ve been through some rough shit, there shouldn’t be any shame in being a little gun shy afterward. And who knows? Maybe you’d be open to being a little more social eventually, if all the right elements were to fall into place. But it might take something really special to make that happen. Meanwhile you have your laptop to keep your crotch warm and a box of Star Crunches that isn’t going to eat itself. And that’s fine, too.
I’m determined to not have it be this way forever, though. For now, it is what it is.
It's sort of difficult to explain in writing, but I can’t help feeling that the Olsen twins would understand.
Mary Kate? Ashley? If you happen to be reading this, hit me back.
POST 3
These are a Few of My Unfavorite Things…
As a warning to others about just how thoroughly not glamorous it is to be a vampire, I think I should describe the physical effects on a human body after being transformed into one – which, in the interest of conserving precious blog space, will now be referred to as This whenever possible. This, as in, “This really blows,” or “This is so totally fucked up,” or “You can take This back and shove it up your ass; I don't need it anymore.” Hopefully that little maneuver will shrink the experience vampirition into a tiny, manageable concept, thereby keeping it from sounding too sexy or romantic or transcendent. It may seem terribly mystical when you say being transformed, but it’s about as esoteric as a raging case of diarrhea.
During the lowest point of the process, it actually is a raging case of diarrhea.
If only it would have finished up as predictably as that. At least I could have looked forward to a happy conclusion: two days of living on the toilet, then rehydrate with a couple bottles of Gatorade and on with my life I would go. But whatever I was shitting out wasn't going to be replaced by a sports drink. And it just kept… on… going. Mind you, I had no idea at the time that what was happening to me was actually This, so I really thought it wouldn't outlast my supply of Charmin Ultra. Toward the end, I was wiping my ass with dish towels.
Dish towels.
It came on after a rare night out – which came after a very long spell of almost no nights out (see previous post) – and started innocently enough with symptoms that WebMD told me could be either a hangover, the flu or the onset of gonorrhea. It could easily have been all three of these, given my historic lack of self-care and a small, ill-advised love affair I apparently had with a tray of dynamite rolls at the Samurai Ham on Rye Sushi Deli Cafe. It’s difficult to recall the details, possibly because of all the sake bombers. Or possibly because I was being changed into the living dead.
Tends to make the memory a little hazy.
And after the process had ended, there was an undeniable permanent shit-feeling state that wouldn't go away, which clued me in to the idea that something more sinister was happening. And it had nothing to do with raw fish or rice wine. But it did have something to do with that night.
We'll get to that. Just not right now.
Baby steps.
I will admit that, although I was less than psyched once I learned that This had taken place, there was a brief, hopeful moment when I swallowed the hype and let myself imagine the cool mystery of what my life might soon become. It was a dream-fed hallucination, like some slow-motion ad for designer cologne, in which all of the mundane clutter I’d surrounded myself with was suddenly gone, replaced by sleek CGI architecture and cars from the future. I was taller and fitter, naturally great-smelling and the thinning spots on my scalp had filled back in without a single trip to Bosley.
My penis had doubled in length and girth.
My testicles appeared to have fully descended. Finally.
Italian