It's OK to Dance

Christ, No Mas

Expensive gifts and cards.  Family gatherings with estranged relatives.  Irritating cold.  Irritating people.  Moldy mistletoe and awkward exchanges.  Dead turkeys.  Dead hopes.  Commercialism and competitiveness.  24 hours of A Christmas Story.  Oh yeah, And Jesus is thrown in there somewhere, too.

This, my dears, is Christmas.

The worst time of the year.

Work
For me, Christmas hasn't been nice in years.  A big part of that happened when I started working.  Retail not only reveals the true evil of humanity but it really rears its fugly head during Christmas.  Tensions are high with the expectation to deliver nice gifts to friends/family/baby mamas coupled with the proclivity to procrastination.  They come in at the last minute and expect every article of clothing in every size waiting for them, perfectly folded and eighty percent off the suggested retail price.  Then, they expect coupons at the register because they were too irresponsible to remember to bring in their own.  And when we don't have those coupons or those shirts or the size they need, they get pissed and take it out on us.

In my town, there are really only two places to shop.  Where I work and Wal-Mart.  All I heard this season was, "Well, all I have to go is go to Wal-Mart and I'll be done with my Christmas shopping," or "I just came from Wal-Mart and it was a nightmare!"  Of course, the ones who just came from there are the ones who come up to me.  They are the most worked up because they've been waiting in long lines (out of the twenty or so registers they have, only four are open, which is better than their usual two).  They've just come from a fistfight with three other middle aged moms with cigarette breath and gray mullets over the last Hannah Montana poster/Salvia laced lip gloss combo pack.  And now they're coming into our store, tired and angry and expecting to be waited on like their aren't five hundred other people scrambling to purchase the last ill-fitting shirt on the table.  The sad part is it's not much different from any other time of the year.

And there is no Christmas cheer.  This year alone, I've had old women get nasty with me, yell at me, tell me I was lazy and call me fat.  There has been no "Merry Christmas!" or "Happy Holidays!"  It's only been, "This isn't ringing up on sale like the sign says!" or "What do you mean you don't have this in stock?  Why  not?!"  It doesn't help that it's our store's policy to not only allow the customer to abuse us, but to stand there and smile and take it.  I can't tell you how much it pains me to let people get away with such rude behavior when really they need a nice swift kick in the butt and to be told off one good time.

Family
I don't even know these people.  Every year, it's another uncomfortable visit with family that I only see specifically for Christmas and no other time.  I have no connection to them other than name and a little bit of blood.  Other than that, I don't have anything in common with them nor do I care to.  They are all in different stages of life than I am.  For one, there's a large age gap.  Everyone close to my age has kids now so any commonalities we once shared have been negated by the kids and the kids are too young for me to tolerate.  Everyone else is older than I am so there's no common ground there.

The only people I like other than my nuclear family is my grandmothers.  But, as the years pass by, it's getting harder to ignore the decline in their health.  It's always sad to see the toll the year has taken on them.  One is becoming senile while the other is becoming frail.

It's also a shame to see everyone else being such typical white trash.  I know that sounds harsh but it's the truth.  They all drink and smoke and have low wage jobs that are barely getting them by.  None of them went to college, if they graduated from high school at all, partly because they couldn't afford it and partly because they probably just didn't have that drive to become better than where they came from.  They shack up with other white trash families in the neighborhood and before you know it, we have another unexpected pregnancy and the cycle continues.  And because neither parent is educated and/or has a good-paying job nor is out of their late teens, the child will essentially be raised by children.  All the money will go toward beer, cigarettes and scrappy dogs that they can't take care of.

Of course, I'm not much better off than these people.  I went to college but I also had to take out exorbitant loans to pay for it and it's slowly coming back to bite me in the butt because I also have a low wage job and those loans are coming due.  But, at least I like to think that I often dream of better things for myself.  I suppose it's presumptuous of me to assume they don't but if they did, why would they then go out and knock up some dumb slut, thus cementing their skank status?

Judging?  Of course I'm judging.  It's what I do.  But don't think I don't judge myself just as harsh.  I'm overweight and balding and at twenty-five I'm working in a low-class retail clothing store where I have to put up with people's crap every single day and I'm not exceptionally talented or particularly smart.  I just happen to take hygiene a bit more serious than the rest of my relatives.

The Reason for the Season
I suppose I'm not the only one who wasn't exactly thrilled for Christmas this year.  In fact, I haven't been for several years now.  I guess it's almost a given as you grow older.  You stop believing in Santa and as you make your own money, you buy whatever you want whenever you want instead of having to wait until the end of the year.  It was almost nice, that excruciating anticipation and near nirvana-esque moment of tearing off that wrapping paper and finding yourself in possession of the item(s) you've been coveting for months, spending the day drunk on turkey and toys.

But, the older you get, the less fun it becomes.  Suspense is slacked.  Surprises are scarce.  Because, let's be honest, Christmas is about presents.

Of course, that's not what Christmas should be about.  For Christians, it should be all about Jesus.  Although the date is wrong, it's a commemoration of his birth.  I mean, he's kind of a big deal.  Without Him, we'd all be belly flopping into the lake of fire.  And if you're not a Christian, then the time should be about family.  It's one of the only times of year when you can get together with all of your relatives, especially those who have been fortunate enough to scatter and find a life somewhere else.   That is, if you like your relatives.

But, as for me, Christmas really never had to do with any of those things.

I think it's hard to be all about Jesus when you didn't grow up with Jesus being the center of your life.  My parents aren't particularly religious and never were.  They believe in God but I think that's about the extent of it.  We never went to church or prayed before a meal.  I don't even know if they are saved.  I don't even know if they know how to be saved.  And while I'm down with Jesus, He's usually far from my mind while I'm clutching my new XBox or other highly sought after electronic device.

I hate when people use the expression "remember the reason for the season."  I think people just say that to feel better about themselves as they go for that pair of jeans or purse.  As long as we have Jesus in the back (way, way back) of our minds as we max out our credit cards, then it's all good!  If we really remember the reason for the season, then all this gift-giving wouldn't be as big of a deal as it is.

I feel bad because I don't know what Christmas means to me anymore.  I've had a falling out with my faith this year and I've never been about family so where does this leave me?  How can Christmas be special without gifts or God or grandmothers?  How can I find that spark of excitement that seemed to have fizzled out so long ago?  It seems every year I become more jaded, more numb to the festivities, to family, to my self.  I guess I'll need to make some changes.  Calm down, slim down, appreciate what I have, get a better job, confidence, a nice wardrobe, tolerance for obnoxious people and love.  Love for God, for others and for myself.  And someone to love me.  And I'll need a heart to make all of this possible.

Man, Santa's got a tall order to fill for next year.

Birthday Bulge

"If you don't eat yourself, you will explode instead..."
-Goldfrapp, Eat Yourself

So, yes, my birthday was this past Saturday.  And it sucked.  That's pretty much all there is to it.  I had to work and working in that hellhole always ruins my day.  I'm not going to get into it because it seems like every year I always bemoan my birthday and it's just tired now.  I know I'm slowly (or not so slowly) turning into one of those people who always has to criticize Thanksgivings and Christmases, who has to be a buzz kill and take a steamy dump on everyone's holiday spirit and I don't wanna be that douche.

And the most annoying part?  I had to fight to get some time off to do some kind of holiday shopping.  You'd think, working in retail, that getting my Christmas shopping done wouldn't be a big deal but when you're in that kind of environment all day and you finally get off work, the last thing you want to do is to jump back in that environment in a different location.  So, since my supervisor wouldn't give me my birthday off, I asked for two days during the prior week.  She wouldn't give that to me, either, so I had to give her my pimp hand until she finally relented.

So, after having to claw and scratch to get some time off, I went out of town with my mom to finally get started on my Christmas shopping.  I bought some things for family and bought some stuff for myself as well.  Let me say, it was incredibly depressing trying on clothes.  First of all, those harsh lights are terrible.  I saw every pore, every pimple, every wrinkle all over my face.  I was hideous.  And then, I tried on shirt after shirt, coat after coat, sweater after sweater and none of them fit.

I've gained so much weight since I've graduated.  I've talked about this before but let's rehash it, shall we?  While I've pretty much gained weight everywhere, it has mostly concentrated to my stomach.  So, when I'm trying on these articles of clothing, if I go to an extra large, the shoulder seams hang off my shoulders and the torso pretty much swallows me.  Go to a large (and sometimes medium) and it fits great in the shoulders but it's too tight around my midsection.  So, I can't win.  And my mom doesn't help because she thinks everything should be big and baggy.  She says all my shirts are too short and too tight if they aren't hanging down to my knees so she obviously can't be trusted with fashion advice.

I just wish I could go into a store and be able to pick out anything and leave.  I wish I could be a shirt and jeans guy.  I layer a lot.  It's not because that's how I like to dress.  Imagine being a fatty wearing two to three shirts (and/or a jacket when it's cold) at any given time.  It's not comfortable.  But, I have to so I can cover up all my fat.  Shirts are made so thin these days that if I were to just wear a shirt, the flimsy material would cling to all my fat rolls.  So, I have to layer so try to provide some decent coverage/camouflage.  Plus, I'm hot-natured so all those layers don't help that whole "fat sweaty guy" stereotype.

Everything looks good hanging on the racks but when I put it over my lumpy body, it looks skewed and warped like an acid trip on my body.  And as I slowly button the shirt, once it gets to my belly and the fabric starts to stretch and I have to suck in to button the jeans and my thighs are screaming, I get depressed.  I want to give up on put on some elastic pajama bottoms and call it a day.  And eat a whole pizza.  Which makes me fatter.  And worsens everything.

It's funny because I know how to lose weight.  I've done it off an on my entire teen years and two separate times I lost a major amount of weight.  And yet, here I am, almost as big as I ever was, starting over, back to zero.  And I can do it again but it just sucks because once I lose all this weight, I'll only be getting back to where I was before I started gaining.  It'll be an accomplishment but I just think of how it won't amount to much because I still won't be where I want to be and I'll have to push myself even harder and be even more disciplined to push past my thinnest and get even thinner.

Bottom line is I will probably always struggle.  I will never be satisfied.  I will gain and lose and gain and lose until I die.  I am too vacant inside and so I fill up on food and that will never change until something else comes along and occupies that void.  I just don't know what that thing will be.  I certainly can't imagine anything taking the place of pasta.

Happy birthday, chunky.  Go have another slice of cake to make yourself feel better and deal with it some other day.  For now, let the food soothe you.  You know it's wrong and it's only temporary but when you're in pain, you don't care about the consequences.  You need that reprieve, that quick fix, that numbness.  You require it to make it through the day.  You need it so bad it becomes all you are.

You consume so much until you're the one being consumed. 

You're eating your problems, eating your fears and insecurities, slowly eating yourself into nothing.  Oh, you'll expand all right but you're just withering inside, smothering everything good, thinning up and drying out until you're brittle and break into thousands of shards.  But, it's all you know.  You're comfortable in your gluttony because it works, however temporary.  And what's the alternative?  If you don't bury it down, it'll erupt within you, take over your body and mind and mouth and you'll simply explode all over everyone and bring them down with your anger, fear and hatred.  They'll see you for who you really are.  And you can't have that.  No, not just yet.

Writing My First Novel

Well, National Novel Writing Month is now over and I am happy to say that I not only met the goal of writing 50,000 words in thirty days, but surpassed it.  You can take a look to the right side of your screen to see my total word count.  It feels good to have pumped out so much material in such a short amount of time.  I'm exhausted, relieved, happy, and nervous about what I've done and the future of this story I've written.  Actually, I'm still writing it.  I haven't quite finished, although I am pretty close. 

It feels weird to come home from work and not have a deadline to meet.  For the past month, I've literally come home from work, taken a nap, pooped, and then wrote until bed time.  And in some ways, I've gotten used to it.  Now, things feel slower, calmer.  And now, it's going to take some time to get used to that as well.

Thoughts on National Novel Writing Month
I first heard about National Novel Writing Month a year or so ago.  I thought it was a pretty interesting idea but I was pretty busy with school so I didn't have the time or energy to dedicate to the project.  Jumping to last month, I realized I wanted to take on the challenge.  Because I've been working on my memoir for the past 3+ years, I figured I needed a literary kick in the behind to kick start my writing again.  So, I decided to write a novel in thirty days, not only to see if I could do it, but to really get my writing juices flowing.

The only problem was I remembered about the project a good week before it began.  And I had no concept.

I had a short story brewing in my head for a while and I wondered if I could expand it into a novel.  I realized I would have to because that short story was the only story I had going on.  So, on November first, I took my concept and began to write.  I wasn't necessarily concerned about it being great because it was, after all, an experiment, just to see if I could do it.

And the argument that most, if not all, of the novels written during National Novel Writing Month are not going to be great is what a lot of people use to criticize the project.  Some people say it's just more unpublishable trash thrown into the world and a big waste of time.  I disagree.  The website tells you straight out that the goal of the project is not to create something wonderful or life-changing.  They tell you the novel will probably be crap.  And you know what?  It's okay.  The goal is not to have this polished piece of literary ambrosia.  The goal is to write.  And, if you're a writer, I think you can understand how hard it is just to write sometimes.  Writers often worry about creating a good story, sure, but I think a lot of writers also worry about just sitting down and pounding something out.  Writer's block sucks and probably affects every writer at some point.

Plus, writers, and people in general, always tend to say, "I'd like to write a novel but I don't have the time, resources, energy, etc..."  I think people tend to forget they lack the motivation as well.  Writing a novel just isn't as important as getting to work/school/rehab on time.  Writing a novel isn't as big of a priority as paying the bills or waxing your car and/or bush.  Writing a novel isn't as important as putting food on the table. 

So, for a writer who suffers from writer's block or that regular person who doesn't necessarily write all the time but wants to explore that inner novelist, National Novel Writing Month is the perfect excuse to sit down and just write.  There are no prizes except for a few small goodies and the feeling of actually having written a novel.  There are no penalties for not winning.  Basically, there is no pressure.  There is a goal and there is encouragement and then there is you.  Even if you don't make it to 50,000 words, the fact that you started is a step in the right direction.  The fact that you sat down and wrote every day in a step in the right direction.

So, yes, my novel is not good.  But, that's okay because this is only the first draft and it can become something good.  And if it does become good, who knows, it might start a nice career for me as a writer.  But, I never would have written this if it weren't for National Novel Writing Month.  It just goes to show that you never know what could happen, what something can turn into, if you just give it a shot.  Plus, I now feel like I can finish my memoir faster than I would normally.  If I can pull a novel out of thin air in thirty days, I should be more than able to complete my memoir (that I already have plenty of source material for) fairly quickly.

And that is why I don't think National Novel Writing Month is a waste.  It is merely a tool to get writers to write.  They say everyone has one good novel in them, even people who don't write.  Maybe this is that opportunity for non-writers to get that novel out and for writers to explore something different or just get motivated to create something at all.

The Process of Writing My Novel
As I said, my novel is a short story concept that I came up with a long time ago.  Because I am not very creative, I couldn't really think of another idea for the project so I just said, "What the heck," and sat down and starting writing with that idea in my head.  The first few days were pretty hard for me because I really had to get into the rhythm of writing again.  Then, I had to get into the rhythm of writing from someone else's perspective.  From two people's perspective, to be more exact.  Not only did I have to get back into the swing of things writing wise, but I had to somehow come up with a way to stretch my already thin concept into a flippin' novel.  The anxiety of having to do that pretty much clogged up my creativity and I almost abandoned the project the first week in.

But, I decided to press on.  As stated, the fact that bad writing is in some ways encouraged reassured me that I could go on, that whatever I pulled out of my butt would be satisfactory for now because all the project is focused on is quantity.  Just get those words out, even if they are crazy.  So, I did.  I wrote and really tried to let the story tell itself.

Every time I've written a piece of fiction, I've always had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen throughout the story.  Details get muddled in the overall arc but I pretty much know what's going to happen in the beginning, middle and end.  I try not to let these ideas become concrete in my head, however, because when I begin to write, I want to do it organically.  I don't want the story to have to bend to the will of the events I have already conceived but rather use those events to steer the story in a decent direction.  Basically, I try to keep the story from swerving off the road but I don't try to dictate every turn.  I want these characters to be real enough that they'll begin making their own decisions, plotting their own path in the lives that I've conveniently provided for them.

Side note:  This is where I get messed up when writing.  A part of me wants to be very planned out and meticulous.  This is how you can provide excellent foreshadowing and tight pacing.  Yet, I don't want it to feel calculated.  If I remember correctly, Stephen King says in his book On Writing, "…knowing the story wasn’t necessary for me to begin work. I had located the fossil. The rest, I knew, would consist of careful excavation."  I like the idea of stories being there and writers just happening to be the lucky people who get to find them and put them on paper.  It makes it feel more real, like they were meant to be and meant to be heard.  Yet, as I said, without careful planning, writing a story could lead to a lot of getting sidetracked and pacing problems.  So, I suppose I'll have to continue finding a middle ground of letting the story tell itself while simultaneously having some hand in how it unfolds.

And as I wrote my novel, I started to see that, yes, these people were beginning to take shape, form their own opinions and take their own direction.  And as one thing led to another, I realized that the skimpy story was beginning to flesh itself out without much help from me.  And the fear that I would run out of material way before I hit 50,000 words began to fade away.  And here I am at 51,000+ words and I still have quite a bit more to write before I finish.

The novel is about zombies.  I know this comes as a huge shock to many people who know me.  Well, as it's my first foray in novel writing, I thought I would try to make it easy on myself and write something I know well and write something I thought I would have fun with.  I know zombies.  Zombies are fun.  But, as I was writing, I wondered, "What else am I trying to say?" I think if a story doesn't connect with people on a deeper level than just surface level zombie stuff, no one is really going to enjoy it.  Even if they do, it will be easily forgettable.  It needs to resonate somehow.  And I think that's a big part of what makes the  novel weak. 

Another side note:  First of all, there's very little action.  Secondly, it almost reads like my blog.  There's a whole lot of introspection and psychological mumbo jumbo.  I guess that just goes back to writing about what I know.  I almost feel like people would be surprised, and possibly disappointed, to find out it's more of a drama or psychological portrait of two people rather than some gut munching blood fest.  Yes, there's blood.  Yes, there's gore.  But it's not on every other page.

When I began to write, I didn't really know what I was trying to convey other than the initial premise.  I realize now that I can inject all sorts of my own personal pain and social commentary into it but what do I choose?  Where do I go?  What statement am I trying to make?  That will be the biggest question I'll have to answer once I finish up the story and then jump back in for the second draft.

I'm very hard on myself.  I don't think the novel is very good yet there's a drive to finish, that well-you've-come-this-far attitude that makes me want to complete it.  Plus, just because I don't particularly like it doesn't mean others won't.  Plus, this is the first draft.  Of course it won't be good!  That doesn't mean it can't be great later.  I suppose I'm just worried that because I don't like it much now, I don't see how I will like it later, ya know?  It's not a case of turning something good into something great.  It's a case of trying to polish a turd, in my humble opinion.  I'm not sure I can do it.  But, the drive I have to get something published is very strong in me and I really want to get this book out there just so I can have an actual physical book written by me in my hand.  And that seems a little dangerous.  I definitely don't want to ruin my reputation as a writer before it even begins.  I don't want to hand people a crap book and then expect them to throw money at me when I write ten more books.  No, I feel a lot of pressure because if this book isn't good, no one will want to read anything else I write.  And because I don't even like this book, how do I expect others to?  I wonder if it's even worth the multiple revisions it will have to go through to see the light of day or if I should just shelve it and move on to something else.

I read somewhere once where someone said you should write a novel and then throw it in the trash.  Then, write a second novel.  That second novel will be the one that counts.  It makes sense to me because when you do anything for the first time, it's more of a learning experience than anything.  And learning experiences often aren't pretty.

I guess I have some choices to make.  I have to finish the novel and then decide if it's worth my time to revise.  I'm scared because I don't consider myself to really be a fiction writer.  I barely consider myself a writer at all.  But, if I were to call myself a writer, I'm more of a nonfiction writer or an essayist.  I feel my strengths come from writing about real-life situations and my feelings about them.  It's an entirely different world when you have to make up situations and trying to figure out other people's feelings about them.  Plus, I have to recognize that my own crippling insecurities are at work here.  I've never been confident in my writing abilities, fiction or nonfiction.  I get a good bit of support and it means the world to me and it's only then that I feel I'm actually decent (that is not me fishing for compliments, I promise, so don't compliment me on my writing abilities, please!)  But, it goes beyond writing.  I'm insecure about everything involving me so I guess I should just get over it and show me stuff to someone. 

I just have this thing about other people's expectations of me.  For some reason, I always feel there's this hype about my abilities.  I'll draw a picture for someone and then suddenly they tell people and everyone thinks I'm this great artist and they want me to do stuff for them and I feel like their expectations are so high that I can never meet those expectations and then I'll disappoint them and they'll think badly of me.  Same with writing.  I show something I've written and suddenly everyone thinks I'm this wonderful writer (all because of hype, of course, not from the actual material itself) and then people expect me to write these epics that I honestly don't think I'm capable of.  I'm quite a mess.

If I've learned nothing else, I've learned that one shouldn't underestimate novelists.  It is a freaking hard job.  It's so much more complicated than you'd think.  You never just sit there and write for a few hours and you have a story worth selling (well, it probably doesn't happen too often).  There's a lot that goes into it and I have found that out the hard way.  And I'm not even in the thick of it yet.  I don't know what the future holds for this novel but I'd like to think I'm going to continue working on it until I feel it's good enough or I'll continue working on it until I think it can't be saved.  Either way, I've got a lot more work to do.

The Personification of Objects

I've really been slacking off with my updating lately.  Last month, I wanted October to be all about this zombie story that I wrote and this month I'm heavily involved in writing my first novel for National Novel Writing Month, so I guess I just haven't had much time to update.  That doesn't mean I haven't had a lot going on in my mind...

Just to kind of elaborate on my last entry, the discomfort is still there.  I think a part of the reason why is because I grow attached to objects, not people.

I felt bad putting my huge television in our storage building.  I felt bad putting my rinky-dink chair in our storage building.  It was sad letting go of my statuesque armoire to make room for my new desk.  And yesterday, I received a new phone due to a new cell phone provider absorbing my former one.  That night, I reached for my phone to put on my nightstand (I use the alarm feature to wake up in the morning) and when I touched it, I realized I didn't need it anymore.  The phone was old, obsolete, no longer needed.  I felt bad because I felt like I had not only upgraded to "better" things but abandoned the old stuff.

I would understand if you think that's super crazy.

But for me, I don't think it's so extreme.  I knew a girl in high school who personified her stuffed animals.  I do that as well.  But it doesn't stop there.  I have a robot dog that I bought when I was in high school that I still keep around, even though I haven't turned him on in ages.  I don't want to get rid of him because I would feel bad, like I was abandoning him just as if he were a real dog.

Even when I sold my raggedy truck (my first vehicle) and bought a brand new car, I felt a tinge of sadness over selling the truck.  I didn't like the truck so much as it wasn't personally something I'd choose and it was quite old when I got it.  But it sure did work!  It wasn't much to look at but it was dependable and got me where I needed to go.  And yet, I moved on to something that I deemed "better" and got rid of it.

I guess if I really think about it, the reason I get sad is because I almost feel like I'm leaving these things behind to get better things.  And that resonates with me because I feel like I, too, have been left behind by people so they could find someone better.

And maybe I attach more emotion to objects than people because I've never been that attached to people in the first place.  I don't think I've ever had a consistent friend in my life.  I've had some that have lasted quite a while but even the longest, strongest ones have fizzled out in time.  People grow apart.  Time and circumstance change personalities.  People become sick or disturbed.  People move on.  People leave.  But that stuffed animal or acoustic guitar isn't going anywhere, isn't going to get up and walk away.  It's there to be touched and talked to, a constant presence in a world of shifting bodies.

I guess it is kinda weird.

And as I mentioned before, it's the whole idea of change.  I don't know why I'm so against it, especially in a world and a life where things are constantly changing.  The only thing that will ever remain constant is change.  Everything is ephemeral.  And I just can't get past that.  And maybe the emotional attachment and fear of change go hand in hand.  Not only does it feel like saying goodbye to an old friend but I then have to adjust to something new, something coming in and changing up my life and I almost resent it, whether it's a person, place or thing.  I don't like disruptions but existence is nothing but one big disruption after another.

Everything changes. 

People. 

Writing. 

Feelings.

Attachments.

Furniture.

Hearts.

I Can't Get No Satisfaction

I'm feeling so uncomfortable right now.

My new desk came in yesterday.  I spent all day today cleaning out my armoire and removing it so I could set up the desk.  I had to take out my gigante television and replaced it with my flat screen that I purchased for college.  I was trying to save room but it really just make me nervous because I like my old huge television and I don't like the flat screen one as much.  And just to round out the transitions, I got rid of my small chair and upgraded to a bigger chair.

And then the grand finale:  I set up my Cintiq.  I was so scared I would crack it or drop it or something but I managed to set it up just fine.  Then, I powered up my dinosaur Windows computer because I wanted to at least play with the Cintiq although I didn't have any programs.  There's a neat free animation program called Pencil that I dabbled with on my laptop but I thought I'd be able to get more use out of it now that I could draw directly on the screen, even if it was still just practice.

I had to install the Cintiq in two stages:  setting it up as a display and then setting it up as a pen tablet.  It was pretty nerve wracking because I was worried I would screw something up, damage a driver or just have the whole production not even work.  But, turns out, it works just fine.  I've drawn on it a little bit.  I'm hesitant to get too into it, though, because I don't want to scratch the screen with my pen.  I accidentally scratched the face of one of my characters from my senior film into one of the CIntiqs at college.  At least I left an impression there, eh?  So, I just don't want to do that to mine.  The screen is so beautiful and perfect and I don't want to ruin it.  Gosh, what a lovely piece of machinery.  I don't think it is two grand lovely but lovely nonetheless.

But here's where the discomfort comes in.

I hate hate hate change.  Many old readers of mine should know that by now.  I mean I really detest change.  I set up these routines so I can handle them emotionally, which creates a comfort zone.  When things change, it shatters that comfort zone and I feel like I'm going to break out in hives.  This is one of those times.  Everything looks so different and I don't like it.  I know it will take some time to get used to everything but I don't want to.  I have too much going on in my head without having to make room for a change of furniture.

I guess I just thought I'd be happier than this.

Of course, like I said, a part of it is getting used to everything.  The other part is I'm terrified to touch my Cintiq because I don't want to ruin it.  It was so expensive so I want to make that baby last my lifetime (I'm guessing three more years, maximum).  And I don't have the programs I need and the computer is kind of slow which does not help when it comes to fast-paced animating.  Waiting around for a laggy computer to catch up with your work kind of ruins the flow.

But the paranoia shoots up and I wonder if anything will make me happy.  I guess that's weird to say.  I never expected receiving the Cintiq would make me happy.  I figured I'd be happy once I started producing some good work and people responded well to it.  And the Cintiq is the vehicle to get me there.  The thing itself won't bring it.  I suppose I just though I'd be more psyched about it but I'm really just leaning on indifference.

Will anything excite me?

I'm still not so hard at work on my book.  I've written 12871 words, which is a couple of thousand more than my latest piece of fiction so I'm definitely stepping into uncharted territory here.  I feel short stories and novels are entirely two different beasts and I'm hopeful, yet terrified about writing this thing.  It could be great or could be a turd and anyone who knows anything about National Novel Writing Month will say it probably will be a turd.  But that takes the pressure off because it's really just about writing.  Unfortunately, I'm about a good 12,000 words behind already.  I'm not sure I'll be able to finish the novel on time, especially since I'm writing this entry instead of working on my book and I've been rearranging my room all day instead of working on my book and now I feel too exhausted to work on my book and I have to work for the next six days in a row and after I'm done with my shifts at work, I'm not so much in the mood to write as I am to run my car off a bridge.

But even if I don't finish on time, I'm sure I'll be close and I'll have written more in one novel than all my short stories combined so I guess that's commendable enough.

Novel

November is shaping up to be quite the month already.  And not necessarily in a good way.

First of all, I'm participating in National Novel Writing Month.  The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days.  And that's it.  If you do that, you win.  If you don't, then no big deal.  There's no trophy or award or publishing deal.  You just write and if you make your goal, you get the satisfaction of knowing you wrote an actual novel.  The funny thing is no one even expects it to be good, especially since you're writing the novel at such break-neck speed.  So, that kind of takes the pressure off.  I'm not writing an epic here.  I'm just trying to write a book.  And of course, I'm already way behind but I am writing every day and I hope I can catch up on my next day off tomorrow.  The plan is to knock out these 50,000 words by the end of the month.  If I do, I'll be happy.  If I don't, then I'll still be somewhat happy that I at least made an attempt.  I've never written a piece of fiction over 10,000 words before so this will be a real challenge for me.  I'm not even that great at fiction so that makes the challenge all the more difficult but I figured I would at least give it a shot.

So, if I finish and think what I wrote is crap, I'll just trash it.  If I think there's some potential, I will continue working on it.  If I think it's good enough to self-publish but not sell, I might give away a few copies to those interested.  But, that's looking too far ahead.  I have to finish it first.

My Cintiq finally came in on Thursday.  I was excited but not as much as I was thinking I would be.  I guess I felt more relief than anything knowing it was finally here after waiting a month for it, not knowing when it would arrive.  I don't have a desk or software or a computer upgrade to use it yet, though, so it's still in the box in the living room.  My desk is expected to arrive some time next week so when that gets set up, I'll try to set up the Cintiq and I might hook it up to my old computer just to play around with it.  If my old computer can handle it.  It'll probably need to be totally cleaned out and then upgraded to accommodate all the software I'll need to use.  Just a couple of thousand more dollars.  No big deal.

Also, my cell phone carrier is being transitioned over to AT&T this month so I'm pretty excited about getting the iPhone because I'm a materialistic s.o.b.

So, a lot of stuff is happening this month.  I'll be busy with work and gearing up to start animating again and playing with my new phone and in my free time I'll be trying to pull a book out of my butt.  Also, my favorite band Showbread will release a brand new and free album later this month.  I, as well as several other people, received an advanced copy last night because I sent in a donation to help them fund the making of the album so now I have new music to listen to while all of this is going on.

Unfortunately, the thing I've been looking forward to the most is devouring the new Wisconsin six cheese pizza from Dominos after getting off work yesterday.  It was good, too.  My life is that sad.  I'll probably have diarrhea later.

But it was worth it.

Lumberjackass

More work shenanigans:

We had a poor excuse for a costume contest on the Friday and Saturday before Halloween.  I really enjoy dressing up for Halloween but once I stopped trick or treating and had no more Halloween parties to attend, there seemed no point in dressing up, especially when I'd just end up sitting in my room plowing through Doritos while watching a Night of the Demons marathon.  So, I thought the contest would be a good opportunity to find an awesome costume and impress and amuse the masses.  Well, the store manager didn't even announce the contest until Tuesday, leaving very little time to find anything decent.  So, I pretty much bought some clothes from the store and rigged myself up a lumberjack costume.  I even went out and bought some mud-stomping boots with no intention of wearing them outside of that occasion.  I also stopped shaving for that macho look.  Unfortunately, I couldn't find an axe but I thought I had done pretty well with the limited time and resources. 

So, imagine my lack of surprise when I go into work Friday morning in my flannel shirt, suspenders, cuffed jeans and chunky lesbian boots just to see that I was the only one dressed up.  It was a lot like showing up to class naked or...going into work dressed as a friggin' lumberjack.  I was out of place and I don't like that feeling.  I'm a blender.  Blend into crowds, blend into my surroundings.  Imagine everyone else in dress pants and floral tops while I'm harvesting trees in the men's department.  I was pretty ticked.  As you know, I'm self-conscious as it is and all I could think about was how all the customers were going to think I was weird.  I could just imagine an old woman turning to her friend and asking, "What is Paul Bunyan doing working here?"  So, I stripped off my suspenders and took off my boots and switched them with an extra pair of regular work shoes I had stashed away in my car just in case the boots uncomfortable.  While I looked slightly less lumberjack-like, I still looked completely ridiculous.

I should have known this would happen.  I had a sneaking suspicion I'd be alone in my garish garb when everyone I asked about dressing up said they weren't going to.

"Eh, I have a few ideas I'm throwing around."  (I don't have anything nor do I plan on having anything)

"Probably not, I don't have time to get anything."  (I'm too lazy to throw something together)

"You know, I just don't feel like it."  (I'm a boring whore)

Where's the Halloween spirit?  Where's the fun of dressing up and being silly and becoming someone or something else?  And people think I'm a grumpy old man.  At least I tried.

Although I did hear one girl would be dressing up.  So, I figured as long as I wasn't the only one, I'd be good.  Well, she didn't.  So I went to all that trouble for nothing.  I didn't even win the contest!  Oh well, I think I looked pretty snazzy, although I wasted quite a bit of money.  I went home after work and stayed in my outfit for the rest of the night because I didn't want it to go to waste.  I thought I'd try to squeeze as much use out of it as possible.  So, all in all, Halloween was another epic failure, if you don't include the awesomeness that was The Walking Dead premiere.  I watched it the first time plus the two encore presentations.  

 

Hi, I chop trees.

I also lay pipe.

Unveiling

"We never are what we intend, or invent
'Cause I make little lies and then I pull them apart
Think something dark's living down in my heart..."
-Brand New, At the Bottom

All of my life, I've been made to feel inferior.  Some of it was intentional.  Some of it was not.  Either way, the result was never feeling good enough.  Subconsciously, I've overcompensated for that feeling of inferiority by trying to perfect myself.  While my body and mind is a mess, my everything else has to be immaculate.  Everything I put out into the world has to represent perfection so no one knows what a piece of useless garbage I really am.  That's why I have great handwriting and keep my work so organized.  It's why I am polite and have tact.  It's why I offer good advice and listen intently.  It's why I made good grades and never got into trouble.  I walked the straight and narrow path because I thought that would make up for lacking confidence.  I never wanted to engage in any behavior that would raise eyebrows or set off whispers.  I've always acted in the best interest of others, never of myself.  I thought if I did everything that I believed was right, things would change, that I would feel good about myself.  If I followed the rules, it would pay off somehow, some day.

I have made it my life's work to take the route of the good and humble, to do good things and be a good person to everyone.

But where has that gotten me?

Nowhere.

My whole life has been a lie.  My outward feelings have been false.  My character is not truly me.  It's all been carefully crafted to create someone else, someone who would be good enough, someone worthy of acknowledgment instead of judgment.  I'm so preoccupied with being perfect that I'm not being anymore.  My looks are Photoshopped.  My attitude is artificially sweetened.  My words are romanticized.  Everything you've ever read, everything you thought you knew was wrong.  It was not an intentional misdirection or outright lie on my part.  It was merely me trying to mold myself into someone I thought was better than who I actually was.  All the rejection from so many people.  Finally, I followed everyone else's lead and rejected myself.  That rejection formed a resurrection into the good boy, artist, sensitive writer, non-drinker, non-smoker, Christian, vegetarian, people pleaser.  The reliable one.  The funny one.  None of that is me.  I've tried to cover up my true nature and did a pretty good job of it until everything began to unravel, events in my life unveiling the emptiness within.  There are no words that can soothe me, no touch that can restore me.  I am tired.  I am giving in to the terrible person that has always been there, hiding away under the layers of fat and feigned kindness. 

My entire being has been broken down and built back up with fabrications. All admirable efforts.  All failures.  Rejected again.  The worst part was it was all for nothing.

Consequently, I am nothing.

I am dead.

I am a monster.

I am nothing.

I am nothing.

Let me show you...

The Road in Red: One Flesh

"My will is at God’s hand, never within man’s teeth..."
-The Devil Wears Prada, Revive

Tears of joy flooded Noah’s eyes.  Relief swelled inside him like a warm bath.  He tucked the cane underneath his arm and put his face in his hands.  He had made it.  He had found his home.  Noah quickly wiped his hot cheeks with his palms and sniffed up the loosened snot from his nose.  No, he still had to go inside, still had to make it to the doors.  He hadn't made it yet.  He wasn't safe until he had passed through the threshold, until he had a solid barrier between him and the dead world outside.  The house was still half a mile away.  Being as sick and injured as Noah was, that half a mile felt like fifty.  The warm bath water relief turned ice cold as the realization that he might not make it came over him.  His heart could give out at any time.  Exhaustion was clawing at him.  Hunger was pulling his stomach into the dirt.  Put his home pulled him forward.

Noah walked as far as he could until the pain in his thigh took him to the ground.  It was as if someone had shoved a hot poker right through his flesh to the bone.  Noah tried not to scream, waited for the wave of pain to cease like it normally did, but it did not alleviate.  Sweat poured from Noah’s body causing the dirt to stick to his chest and stomach.  Noah rolled over on his back and could not hold in the hurt any longer.  The pain was not subsiding, only increasing in intensity.  He screamed out in absolute agony.  More liquid dribbled from the corners of his mouth.  The pain multiplied at an alarming rate and even worse, began to spread.  Noah could actually feel the disease of the bite worm its way down his entire leg and up into his groin, other leg and stomach.  It took hold of his testicles and intestines and squeezed.  It felt like everything was being blending in his body, liquified.  It was as if piranhas were inside of him, eating away at his insides, swimming and scurrying up and down the lower half of his body.

Noah fought the pain and turned over onto his stomach.  He began to crawl.  Guttural screeches of misery filled the clear sky and called the creatures to him.

Noah felt chilled to the bone despite the radiating heat of the sun.  The breeze was gone.  The rain was only a memory.  There was nothing and no one to help him now.  Goosebumps sprung along his body and raised the hair on his arms.  Noah continued to crawl, the dirt and rocks scratching at his nipples, his hair clinging to his forehead like a watery glue.  Noah crawled and crawled and seemed to make no progress at all.  He didn't even know if he was moving or imagining himself inching closer to his home.  Noah’s eyes began to cross and his vision started to blur and go black.  The pain came in waves of terrible to excruciating.  The painful poison spread completely to Noah’s legs and up into his chest.  Noah involuntarily vomited a milky yellow bile.  It heaved up in ropey strands, his stomach contracted so hard a rip of pain sliced through his torso and accompanied the pain that was already there.  The bile bubbled in the dirt.  Small particles were floating in it.  Noah crawled through the substance.

In the distance, he could hear the people coming again.  The dead people.  The things.  Maybe one of them was the lady with the tongue?  Had the wicked witch melted in the rain or was she one of the survivors?  Had he shot her, stomped her with his foot or cane?  He couldn't remember anymore.  Noah craned his neck back and with his limited vision, he could see the group lurching up ahead of him.  He was so close to home but he would never make it.  This was it.  They were all around him in every direction and he could not stand and fight.  He was practically dead.  What was going to get him first?  The existent bite mark or another bite from one of them?  Maybe they only wanted fresh meat?  Ever rational, Noah wondered if maybe they'd look over him as damaged, used up, and would go about their way?  Is it going to hurt when they bite into me? he wondered.  How silly a thought.  He was already in so much pain nothing would make it worse.   

Light me on fire, peel off my skin, pluck out my eyeballs.  It's all nothing compared to...this.  This is how it's going to end, after everything.  After making it so close.  God, why?  Why do you let me suffer so much?  Just let me go home or kill me now.  Take me before they do.  

Where are you?  Whereareyou...

Noah saw something dancing in his peripheral vision.  He looked over and it revealed itself to be a fairy.  The tiny woman's skin was made of silk and her wings of glitter.  She was snow white and naked, her breasts heaving as she flew around him.  The wings buzzed in his ear as she flew around his head.  She caressed his chin and ear and quietly sang to him.  He reached out to touch her and as he did, she dissolved into a million particles.

I'm losing my mind, Noah thought.  The infection was starting to reach his brain.  Could he trust what he was seeing anymore?  Were these people even real or was he imaging them as well?  The moaning from the dead grew in range, twisting itself into a kind of song.  The trees above Noah danced and shook their branches to the morbid music that was going to be the death of him.  Sunlight came down, trickled through the moving branches, and resembled the sweeping points of light from a disco ball.  This was all a production, an elaborate musical number that would accompany his death.  The world was putting on one last show before he bowed out.  Noah turned onto his back again and slid his hand into his left pocket.  He looked up and saw a group of them heading his way.  The sun was shining directly behind them, their heads pitch black against the blinding sun, a halo of radiance setting their skulls aglow.

They looked like angels.

Noah blinked through teary eyes.  Three woman, one man and two that were indistinguishable.  They were fresh.  No missing body parts, no gashes or lacerations.  Some of them still looked human.  Maybe they were.  Maybe they were coming to save him.  But the groans told him different. 

Whereareyouwhereareyouwhereareyou...

Noah reached for the familiar lump and pulled it out of his pocket.  He raised the small box to his eye level.  He opened it and smiled.  The sun shone brightly on the elegant ring that sat safely tucked inside, untarnished.  The sparkle carried his mind off into his memories, the one place the sickness had yet to reach, the only scrap of safety he had left.

The Road in Red: Alone

“Oh, God!” Noah screamed.

Surrounded by dead bodies that were closing in all around him,  Noah realized there was no way to break through their rotted line of flesh.  The man and woman and their followers were closing in behind him and the new group wasn’t too far ahead of him.  Noah only had two bullets left, not even enough to put a dent in either group.  For a second, Noah thought that he should just take his chances and jump into the woods but quickly tore that idea from his temples.  The woods were too dense, too full of hiding places for those people.  They could be behind any tree, ready to grab him by the arm or neck and pull him down and that would be the end.  Noah then thought he could tackle them, break through their line.  The ones ahead looked a lot frailer than the ones behind him.  They had been dead for a long time.  Maybe they’d go down easily.  But what if they didn’t?  He could handle one but if two or three of them grabbed him all at once, he wouldn’t be able to fight them off, especially with the throbbing in his leg that was slowly crippling him. 

Noah stood there, not knowing what to do.  His mind raced but he couldn't think of anything in particular.  In an attempt to come up with a split second solution, he froze as a trillion other things blurred past the eyes of his mind.  Looking down, Noah noticed there were no tree limbs or heavy rocks for him to use, nothing to help him.  The rain began to hit his head harder, fatter drops of water splashing off his nose and hands.  Noah pulled out his gun.  With no more time to organize a surefire strategy, he decided to shoot the ones closest to him and hope they’d go down.  With enough luck, they would create a hole large enough for him to squeeze through.  The odds weren’t good but Noah was battling a sudden onset of exhaustion, fear and tremendous pain that wouldn't allow for a better plan.  The rain spread out and came down harder, drenching Noah and making visibility low.  The groans of the people were drowned out by the falling rain, splashing down on everything, turning the ground into slippery mud and stifling Noah’s concentration. 

One of the men approached, staggered, lunged his red hands at Noah, his mouth open, ready to receive Noah’s flesh. 

"Father, forgive them; forgive me," Noah said and with a flash of light, he shot the man in the face.  The man went down in a wet heap on the ground.  Noah aimed for the next person in line.  It  was a teenage boy not much younger than him, his throat torn open, his Adam's apple dangling onto his chest with every soggy step.  Noah raised his gun to the teenager and as he concentrated on the face of the person he was going to kill, Noah saw that the hair on his head was falling out, being washed away by the hard rain.  Noah’s eyebrows flared up in confusion.  In a matter of moments, the boy's nose fell right off his face.  His lips and cheeks were next, sloughing off his skull like wet tissue paper.  Soaked lumps of rotted meat slid off the teenager, splattering on the ground that was turning into thick mud.  Splat, plop, splash.  His outstretched arm, wet and full of protruding veins broke off at the elbow and fell with another wet thud.  Around him, the other people were also feeling the effects of the falling water.  One severely decomposed man’s head fell completely off his body, sending him to the mud with a sickening plop.

It was the rain.

Suddenly, Noah remembered what his grandmother had told him. 

“The rain is only God’s tears, sugar.  It’s His way of letting us know He’s watching over us.  When the world has become too wicked, the Lord becomes sad and cries.  His tears fall from Heaven and those tears wash away all the bad.  When the rain dries up, man's sin has been cleansed and everything is made good again.”

Wash away all the bad.

One by one, the dead people collapsed and did not get back up.  They tried but the muscles that moved them were disintegrating.  They were becoming skeletal, the hard rain stripping all the flesh from them, the rotting smell of death and fat melting in the mud.  The rain fell intensely and Noah thought he heard a clap of thunder.  Or maybe it was a faraway gunshot.  Out of the estimated fifteen dead people, all but three had fallen, writhing in the mud, bellowing, dying again.  Enough were down to allow for Noah's escape.  He started to run through the mud and quickly slipped.  His legs flew out from underneath him and he fell on his side with a hard thud, right onto the bite wound.  Despite the softening blanket of mud, the ground beneath was still hard and provided no cushion for Noah's fall.  Pain ripped through Noah’s leg like white hot lightning and Noah screamed with abandon.  Rain fell into his open mouth, momentarily choking him. 

After a few moments of cradling himself in the mud, Noah collected himself.  The three dead people were still after him.  He had to get up.  He looked behind him to see the dead slipping and sliding in the mud.  One wasn't wearing shoes.  He couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman.  It also slipped in the mud and upon impact, its left leg fell off at the knee and its left arm fell off at the shoulder.  The others slid clumsily, trying to gain traction while keeping their focus on him.  If the threat of being eaten wasn't so close, Noah might have considered this comical.  If he weren't so exhausted, he might have laughed.  The dead thing on the ground pulled itself through the mud with its one good arm.  The other two were still coming, their faces slowly melting under the merciful rain.  Noah got back up and continued to run.  Their bodies fell out of view but their moaning followed Noah the whole way.

The Road in Red: Splinter Group

The lady with no jaw was coming for Noah.

She looked iridescent and ghostly in the limited light that struggled to break through the clouds.  Noah groped at his pockets.  The gun was in his right, the other item in his left.  He surveyed the ground beneath him.  Spotting a reasonably large tree limb, Noah picked it up and went to meet the woman. 

He found her, her arms outstretched, her tongue lapping at her teeth, her legs struggling to keep up with her urge to feed.  Noah's throat tightened.  His lower lids began to sting with the saline that was trying to crawl through.  His cheeks flushed.  His chest turned to lead.  Pity washed over Noah.  This woman so desperately wanted to eat him.  The one eye she had widened, glistening blue like the ocean, the depth of her hunger unfathomable.  Her tongue wagged at the sight of his skin.  If she had any lips, she might have been smiling. 

Noah had to do this.  This woman, this soccer mom or president of some club, this daughter or wife, this human being needed to be killed for her own peace.  Kill or be killed.  He hated killing them.  He just had to.  He thought about the old man.  He thought about the man before him, the two women, the child.  But with the exception of the old man, they were all sanitized by distance, dispatched by his gun.  He did not have the luxury of a bucketful of bullets anymore.  He had to get his hands dirty again. 

Please, God, forgive me.  Where was Gran?  Where were those cookies?  The woman got closer. 

No, I can't think of this now. 

Noah's mind tried to take him away from the happenings, an instant involuntary self-preservation mechanism.  He would go insane, snap if he had to deal with what he was going to have to do again.  His sanity was on the brink of breaking but he was also within teeth's reach of death.  Noah had to overcome his fear, his reservations, his own mind.  He breathed in the deep, death-filled air in a vain attempt to calm himself for the job at hand, to forget about the wonderful times that once brought him peace.  Those times were done.  Vanished forever in a fog of dead flesh.  Noah readied the tree limb.  He cleared out his mind and focused all thoughts on his swing.

But as the woman approached, Noah heard a shuffling from behind him.

The Road in Red: Sympathy for the Devil

A few yards ahead, Noah spotted one of them.  It was a woman.  Her back was facing him.  She was shuffling along the edge of the road among the opening of the trees.  Noah took in a deep breath and fixed his eyes to the back of her head.  He grabbed his gun from his pants and ran his hand along his left front pocket.  Still there.  It was comforting, reassuring, motivating him to continue forward to reach the end of this journey, of all this madness.  Noah slowed his pace, picking up each foot high off the ground so as not to shuffle and cause noise.  He inspected the ground before stepping to avoid any rocks or twigs.  His eyes took hold of the woman’s head as he slowly inched his way toward her.  Stepping carefully.  Slowly.  Methodically.  The woman just stood there, sometimes leaning one way or the other but mostly just standing still.  Noah had wished she’d walk around, at least for a bit, so that the crunching of her feet in the grass would somehow mask the sound of his own footsteps.  God, what was in front of that tangled mess of hair?  He tried to subdue his imagination, to stop the possible images of the woman's torn face from flooding the front of his mind.  He had seen some terrible things in the past few days...or was it weeks...but he still hadn't gotten used to the human carnage that still churned his stomach.  He had his gun and he could just shoot her easily but he didn’t want to waste bullets if he didn’t have to.  He only had four in the chamber and no more.  What if he needed them when he found himself in a more desperate situation?  What if the bullet he used on this woman could be used for when one of those people was right on top of him?  And there was no telling how much longer he would have to walk.  How many times had he driven down this desolate dirt road and never paid attention to the length of the drive, to the road signs, to the landmarks?  He had no idea how far away he was from safety and he cursed his careless ways.  He had never paid attention before but now he was making up for it, focusing all of his energy and concentration on his surroundings.  He couldn’t let another person sneak up on him like that old man.  He felt blessed to survive one close contact encounter.  He wasn't sure he'd survive another. 

Noah inched his way beside the woman.  Several feet of dirt separated them.  The closer Noah got, the more he could hear the woman.  She was moaning.  Was she is pain?  Was she tired?  The moaning became louder, more unsettling as he passed.  There was a wetness to the noise, as if she was gargling mud.  Moist.  Drowning in her own fluid.  Yet, alive.  A part of him wanted to shoot this woman, to put her out of her misery, to relieve her of the burden of her hunger.  He contemplated the woman just like he began to contemplate the old man.  Then, he stopped himself.  No, he had no time.  He couldn’t lose focus.  Besides, he didn’t want to kill anyone if he didn’t have to.  It felt filthy, sinful.  Noah stopped momentarily, lost in the wave of thoughts that seized his body and locked it into place.  These people had to be dead, right?  Shooting them would not be sinful.  I am not committing murder, he tried to rationalize.  But, there was no rationalization left.  Nothing made sense anymore.  The very nature of life and death was done, no more.  None of the rules of humanity or morality existed once the first dead body woke up.  Now, there was just survival.  There was just making it to the end alive.  Noah stared at the back of the woman's head, not looking at her but through her, allowing his mind to take him out of the dirt road and into some semblance of balance, into something that he could wrap himself in, a blanket of sanity, security. 

And then she shifted.

The Road in Red: Of Rain and Rapture

A work of fiction presented in five parts.

“Now this will be the plague with which the Lord will strike all the peoples who have gone to war against Jerusalem; their flesh will rot while they stand on their feet, and their eyes will rot in their sockets, and their tongues will rot in their mouth.  On that day a large-scale panic from the Lord will spread among them. One person will grab the hand of another, and one will attack the other.”
- Zechariah 14:12

Noah felt the pain of the old man’s bite rip through his thigh, as if someone had injected boiling water into the veins of his leg.  The filthy old man managed to break Noah’s skin despite the thick denim material of his jeans.  Noah howled in pain, which only seemed to make the old man sink his teeth harder, deeper, into Noah’s thigh.  His withering arms flailed at Noah, tearing at his shirt and jeans.  Noah reciprocated, jerking his body and kicking up his legs the best he could, fighting the dead weight of the old man.  Noah hit the man in the head with his fists, clawed up clumps of dirt and threw them in the man’s eyes but it didn’t stop him.  The man held his grip on Noah’s thigh.  Noah managed to inch himself closer to the gun that was bucked out of his hand when the man tackled him.  He kicked and clawed and screamed his way to the gun, wrapped his finger around the trigger and then aimed it at the hungry old man’s face.  He started to squeeze the trigger but thought better of it.  He didn’t want to waste any bullets if he didn’t need to.  Instead, he took the end of the gun and jammed it into the old man’s ear.  The old man immediately let go of Noah’s thigh, a ropey string of slime and saliva coming off the bite.  The old man, too, howled in pain, an inhumanly low gust of agony that escaped his bloodied lips.  Noah repeatedly struck the old man in the ear and face.  His skull didn’t give as easily as Noah had hoped.  He was a fresh one.  Noah freed his good leg from under the old man and kicked him in the chest with all of his might.  The old man fell back and Noah took advantage of the man's temporary disorientation and pounced on him, straddling him to keep him pinned to the ground.  Noah raised the gun in the air and slammed it down onto the old man’s face, crushing his nose and releasing a spray of coagulated blood and cartilage.  The gun came down again and again, slowly caving in the old man’s face until it was nothing more than fragile bone covered in a thick mass of blackened blood and disassembled brain matter.  His arms and legs fell to the ground.  Shaking.  Twitching.  Still.  Noah’s chest heaved in a rush of adrenaline and exhaustion.  Noah stayed on top of the man for a few minutes, allowing his breath and heart beat to slow before using the old man's shirt to clean the mess off of his gun.

Noah got off the old man and stumbled to his feet.  He wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm.  Looking down, Noah contemplated the bloody mess that once used to be a man.  No, he didn’t have time for that.  Noah felt a rush of nausea hit his stomach but he willed it away.  He pulled his pants down to his knees and inspected the damage.  Jagged red marks formed an ellipse right between Noah’s kneecap and groin.  The old man hadn’t bitten too deep or managed to tear away any flesh but it still stung like hell.  Small scratches from the old man's fingernails were scattered about Noah's arms.  Most of them weren't deep, just superficial and slightly raised.  His stomach was sore on the outside and nauseated inward.  No time to be concerned.  Noah had to get back to his destination.  He’d be okay if he could just make it there.

The dirt road seemed to stretch into oblivion, when in reality it was just a few more miles.  Noah was flanked on both sides by the density of trees, their trunks and branches and twigs intermingling and creating a web of cover that was both a good and a bad thing.  They provided good cover and protection for him but also for them.  Noah could see nothing but straight ahead, which didn’t bother him in the slightest.  It made his destination easier knowing he wouldn’t have any detours or distractions.  It also made it more dangerous.  Those people could be hiding behind any tree, lumbering around in the tall grass and he would never know until they were upon him.  That was the case with the old man whose skull he had just bashed in.  Noah lost his concentration for only a few minutes.  He wasn’t paying attention, got to close to the trees and the man lept at him.  Noah silently swore at himself for being so careless, for not being alert enough.  He ran his hand over the lump in his front left pocket.  It hadn’t fallen out during the fall.  Good.

The light from the sun that was illuminating his path was becoming dimmer.  The sky was graying.  Clouds were filling in the blank spaces in the sky, meshing the red dirt with the gray sky into a muddled brown.  The air was dusky and dark.  This was good.  He had heard they didn’t have good eyesight.  Unfortunately, neither did he.  Noah had been walking for so long.  How long, he didn't know.  The days were flowing into one another with the same monotonous activities of walking and evading, sometimes running and defending against those people.  Monday, Tuesday, Deadday, Rotday, one giant day of the week, one giant week of the month, one giant lifetime of oblivion.  It would have been nice to sit somewhere but to sit in the road would have been stupid.  There was no shelter.  He had to move quickly through the darkening sky.  It looked like it was about to rain. 

“Fantastic,” Noah said out loud, right before putting his hand over his mouth.  His eyes widened in fright. 

No sounds! he reminded himself.  It was bad enough that he had to walk the dirt road filled with crunchy leaves and twigs.  He didn’t need to bring any more attention to himself by speaking.  Those people could hear him and would for him.  They were attracted to noise and movement.  Noah calmed himself down and continued to walk the path as it continued to blur in front of him.  Rain was definitely coming.  Just how soon?  Noah felt an unease come over his skin, sinking into his stomach and coming up through his throat, thickening his tongue and closing off the air in his lungs.  He shuddered.

Distractions

"I only make jokes to distract myself
from the truth..."
-Sia, Distractions

You'll often find me distracted.  Physically, all the teeth and fat is accounted for but my mind has long since melted away.  I am not with you.  I did not hear what you just said.  I take nothing in but the swelling emptiness.  The brain is capable of only so much information.  Mine is filled to capacity with clutter.  There is the worry and the fear and the shame.  There is no room for creativity or connection.  I cannot be interested in anyone else because my mind is too far away to take in anything that was said or shown.  People talk to me.  At work, my manager gives me instructions.  And I stand there and I hear what acquaintances, family and coworkers say but it doesn't absorb.  I don't understand it.  I don't follow it.  And sometimes I just don't realize they've said anything at all. 

This is why I've gotten dumber over the years.  I've never had common sense but I was sort of book smart.  After I was done with school, the book smarts went away while the common sense continued to deteriorate.  As far as learning and growing as a person?  Well, that has regressed as well.  

I think this is why I've gotten dumber over the years.  I've been unable to absorb any new information and the old has been pushed aside by the all enveloping dark.  When I tried to go back to school, I was honestly fearful of the material.  I hadn't had to use that part of my brain in years and I was worried I wouldn't be able to understand what was being taught.  When I went back to my old job, I was worried I wouldn't pick up on anything.  Although I had been there before, they had introduced new policies, as well as new registers.  It didn't take very long for me to get back into the swing of things but it took longer than it should have.  And that worried me, disturbed me more than it should have.

I'll admit that I'm drowning in my own misery.  I'm that guy, the one who wallows in his own pain, the one who feels sorry for himself.  And how can I not?  I think sadness comes in the form of walls, planted in between where you are and where you want to be, who you want to be.  And I'm confronted with walls every day.  When I walk into my job, I'm walking into a wall.  When I talk to people, I'm talking to a wall.  When I look in the mirror, I'm looking at a wall.  These walls keep me from hearing everyone else.  These walls keep me from feeling anyone else.  It's all around me, inescapable, so naturally that's all I'll see, that's all I can focus on.  Even when I try to break down the walls, it only leads to another wall.  And at times I think I can see pinpricks of light shining through the cracks in the walls, a shining swelling that gives me small hopes for something better.  Yet, it feels like a thousand miles away.  There's walls to climb and distance to tread.  And there's just no guarantee that it's worth it in the end.  But, everyone's quick to say that happiness is worth that risk.  Is it, really?  What about the bitter disappointment when we realize that happiness is not at the end of the journey, that the steps we took, the rules we followed to get to that happiness only led to a dead end?  Another wall.

I am so inside my head, always distracted to get myself out of my situation.  I can't think about work while I'm at work because if I do, I'll blow up at someone.  I can't think about home.  I can't sit too long with too much quiet or the walls close in.  That's why I've been watching so many television shows and reading so many books.  That's why I always have the television on or music playing while I drive.  Distractions.  Glittery diversions that keep my simple mind occupied so I don't think about the bad stuff.  Instead, I try to think about the good.  I think about stories I want to write or the good future I'll have when the stories are written, published and sold.  I think about creating my own cartoon series, very underground, very gritty and homemade but with a story that forgives any flaws in technical shortcomings.  And I wonder how that might lead into other directions, how maybe one day someone will see me and recognize potential and take me away from all of this.  I just think I have to keep putting myself out there, have to keep trying.  If I'm not trying, I'm sinking, swallowed, overwhelmed.

I think about leaving everything.  When I get enough money, I'm out of here I say to myself.  Running away just like I did with college.  But, look how college turned out.  It very well killed me.  Maybe it'll be better next time.  I'll have the control.  I'll choose who I surround myself with, who I'll invite into my realm of existence.  I always think about reinventing myself.  I've been thinking about it for years now.  I always say I'll go away and come back better, thinner, more talented.  But, how does that happen?  Is there a way to get away from the world, if only for a while, to get myself reorganized and in touch with myself and my creativity?  Is there any way to boost creativity?  I always imagine starting over, realizing that I keep making messes of my lives, that I messed up high school, college and now times after college.  How do I stop messing up?  What is so wrong with me that I destroy opportunity, pilfer possibility and ignore chance after chance? 

Concrete goals have now turned into abstract dreams.  The objectives I've laid out for myself have turned from realistic  achievements to idealistic fantasies.  Happiness is no longer true or tangible.  It is still a hope, yes, but not an ambition.  Most people strive toward happiness in their lives and most know it to be attainable and some do manage to achieve it.  For me, I place happiness in the more childlike fantasies, like flying or becoming an astronaut.  The truth is, I'm withering, truly, honestly withering.  I'm trying to keep my mind off of it.  But I don't know how much longer it will last.    

Not for Me

The other day, I geeked out because I found some animation software online for super cheap.  I was getting ready to sell my blood, sperm and a kidney to be able to pay for everything I would need to start animating again.  I'm talking thousands of dollars here.  So, when I found this software for a couple of hundred dollars, I made a sperm deposit right then and there.  The website looked pretty legitimate but I tried not to get too excited.  I Facebooked my roommates from college and asked if they thought it sounded like the real deal.  They know more about that stuff than I do.  If it was legit, that would have helped me out so much.  I'm already spending so much on a Cintiq, saving up all these months to be able to purchase one and it would feel deflating to have to then start all the way over to get some programs so I can actually use the Cintiq.

Because I haven't animated in over a year, I'm basically going to have to start from scratch, which I don't mind so much.  Obviously, I won't be putting together any good material and getting a real job any time soon but at least I can get back into the swing of things and hopefully improve over the little bit of material I do have.  It feels so weird.  Not only have I not animated anything in a year but I haven't even drawn a picture in a year.  I've never got that long without drawing.  I think I was just so burned out after school and needed a break.  Plus, I wanted to "focus" on my writing.  I'm always worried that the cliche about losing it if not using it is actually true.  Heck, I worried about losing it even while I was using it.  It's also weird because I had an acquaintance from high school ask me to help her out with an art project and I had to delicately decline her offer.  I told her I had temporarily retired from art.  In actuality, I was so rusty I was worried I wouldn't do a good job and she'd be disappointed in my work.  I just hope that I can get back into art and become confident enough to take on offers from people.  It would be great if I could supplement my menial income.

Couple of days later, I heard back from my roommates.  Turns out, the cheap animation software I discovered is sketchy.  I'm not sure it's a total rip off but it's not an authorized reseller and they only send discs and an activation key.  There's no support or help if things go wonky.  I'm not entirely surprised but I am still a little deflated.  It's okay, though, because I'm just going to keep working and saving up and I'll feel better knowing I obtained the stuff through legitimate means and I can feel good about getting any kind of support in case things mess up.

With that being said, I tried to order the Cintiq last week.  It's back ordered.  I also tried to order a nice desk to draw/write on but it too was back ordered.  Both won't be available for several weeks.  If it's not a lack of money getting in my way, it's a lack of availability.  When will I catch a break?

I've been doing a lot of stuff.  I've been watching DVDs, reading and working on my book.  I'm keeping myself busy.  It's a good thing because I'm still struggling with everything, with finances and feelings and I'm always so exhausted because it takes every ounce of strength I have just to make it through the day.  I keep reaching for goals, keep thinking ahead not only to avoid thinking about the present but also so I have something to look forward to, something to give me the strength to make it through hard days.  I have a vision of what I'd like to happen, how I'd like things to work out and I'm depending entirely on myself to make it happen.  This is dangerous.  If it doesn't work out, I'll only be reinforcing the hatred I have for myself.  If it does work, then hopefully it will lift me out of my darkness, even if slightly.

You know, I never really did figure out if I was alive or not.  I sort of just let it hang there, a non existent answer to a baffling dilemma.  But I know I'm not living.  I know there's no life within me.  If there's death, I don't know.  But there's no light, no love and nothing holding me back from the brink of breaking.  It's a tad worrisome.  So, I just don't think about it.  I'm just trying to think about the next paycheck, the next week, the next month ahead when I'll hopefully have all my stuff together so I can start drawing and animating and creating new worlds with lines and colors and my hands, a world I can escape into where I can say I have control.  'Cause I realized a long time ago that this world is not for me.  I'm just afraid my creativity is just as broken as I am.

I pray that I'm mistaken, that I at least have that left.

I feel a bit weird doing this but I'm going to put a donate button on the right side of my page.  I don't expect anything from anyone.  Times are still tough and people can't just be handing their hard-earned money on jerks like me.  But, if anyone feels like donating a little something something, that would be fantastic.  Who knows, maybe a billionaire will stumble across my blog, see that I'm struggling, and drop a several hundred thousand dollars to help a brother out.  Oprah?  Oprah?   

Concrete

So, we all know there will always be people more attractive than us and people less attractive than us. Despite this knowledge, we can’t be satisfied with ourselves. We always strive to look like the more attractive people. We think if we can only have “his stomach” or “her boobs” then we’ll feel better about ourselves. Yet, when we do get there, we realize it’s not enough, that it doesn’t make us feel better about ourselves at all because there is still something, someone more beautiful out there to strive for. If only we can have “her teeth” or “his hair” then we’ll finally feel better about ourselves. It’s like climbing a ladder that leads to nowhere.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Beauty isn’t the way to satisfaction because beauty is fluid and constantly changing and consequently we are always searching and failing. Thin is in and so we lose weight and by the time we are skin and bones, curves are all the rage.  We dunk those donuts and by the time we've fleshed out, straight hair is what's happening.  Then curly.  Then grungy clothes.  Then prep and polish.  Big noses.  Little hands.  Change your wardrobe.  Put your plastic surgeon on speed dial.  Follow every trend to the letter.  Beauty is not concrete. The only thing concrete is confidence. Until we can relinquish everyone else's idea of beauty and start embracing our own, we will never be satisfied. We all have our own beautiful qualities and unique features that we should focus on instead of the features we think we should have or would need to feel good about ourselves. Everything we need to feel good about ourselves is already there, hidden under the fear, inadequacy and shame.

I know this.

But I just don't believe it.

Blood: Love Leaks From Her Neck

Although I was convinced vampires have no capacity to feel true love, something was definitely happening with this girl. I was wanting her, desiring her in a different way than all the rest. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I was the one spilling my guts.  I wasn't used to being on the other end of the unfurling.  Was it possible that I was simply unloading on this dumb girl, that I had held in all these feelings for so long that I had to dump them on someone, anyone?  Or was she special?  Was she somehow bringing this out in me?  Was this really happening? Was there a different kind of lust present, not just a blood lust, but a lust for love? I knew she was into me but I just couldn't figure out if that feeling was being reciprocated. It had been so long since I had felt a genuine human emotion that didn't involve negative energy. And despite my efforts to warn this girl against my kind, I hadn't managed to scare her away. Dare I say, I admired that?  Maybe she was too far gone, too far pathetic for me to get inside of her brain. No matter, that wasn't the part I was interested in getting inside, anyway. This girl had affected me in a way no other human had before in my entire existence as a vampire. And the longer I let her live, the longer I talked, confided in her, the more she intrigued me. It was almost as if she could look into my empty eyes and feel the hurt I endure daily. Although it is impossible for her to know such pain, she seemed to think she did. And that was almost comforting. I had felt as if my emotions were on the brink of...humanity. Although I strike fear into the hearts of humans, I was actually the scared one in this situation. All these new feelings and emotions were trying so hard to tear themselves out of my cold corpse. Was I becoming the impossible, a vampire capable of loving a human, of loving at all? I was going to try one final time to convince this girl that being a vampire wasn't the way to go. The fact that I even cared to tell her threw me off balance. Why should this even matter to her or anyone else? She was nothing but nourishment, yet I couldn't help but to try to warn her, couldn't help but to want to make her run away, to somehow free her from my unwilling hold over her heart.  I think I was wanting to save her.  Lesson three:

In the most basic sense, vampires are drawn to blood because blood is life. It's a drug, yes.  It's a substitute for love, sure.   But most of all, it's the representation of life that runs through the veins. We vampires are without life and so we crave it just like we crave blood. Even in death, we crave to crawl back into skin that is warm and alive. With each neck we nurse, we gain a little bit of life back. Just as you humans cannot escape death, we cannot either. We do all we can to stop it. And even when we lose to death we cannot accept it. We are greedy for life. Vampires are always in a frenzy to be free from the shackles of our shells. Becoming a vampire is the equivalent of being locked in a coffin while you are still alive. It's claustrophobic in this skin. When you're human, you want to die, but when you become a vampire, you just want to live. It's the ultimate irony. There are so many untapped desires the living have yet to explore and the dead aren’t ready to give that up just yet.

Vampires are still human in some respects. We walk and talk and put on the appearances of normality. The frustration is that we can cover up our curse as much as we'd like, but we can never be who we were. We can pass for human, yet we never will be. We don't breathe, so our chests don't ebb and flow in our sleep. We don't cast a reflection. I don't even remember what I look like anymore. I was turned before cameras were invented, so I don't even have a picture to remind me of my features. I don't know what color my hair is, what my lips looks like, even the hue of my eyes. Although vampires gain sustenance from blood, we can eat, yet eating isn’t necessarily recommended. Since our bodies cease to function upon death, the food isn’t digested and it just sits in our stomachs until we throw it back up. And perhaps the biggest disappointment, the thing I miss the most about being human, is the fact that vampires cannot participate in sex. Sex is destroyed in death. We have been compensated in other ways, although they pale in comparison to climaxing. We are granted new eyes, eyes that can see everything. Our eyes can pierce souls, can hypnotize and paralyze, eyes that draw the living to us. Upon our death, time dies as well. We are preserved in tight, youthful skin that holds our attractiveness. We are forever young and forever beautiful. We are given an insatiable lust, a lust that lingers on the flesh of our victims, an intoxication that dizzies and leaves them vulnerable. We smell of sex and seduction. It seeps from our skin. Our lips are full of flavor.  Yet, what's it all good for if we can't indulge in our own attractiveness, if we can't use it for sexual gain?  Yes, it gets us the blood but what about the other parts?  Oh, how I miss those other parts.

As I spoke, I became fixated on the tightness of her body, the tightness of her dress and realized this would be the point where my pants would become tight, if only my organ was functional. Just because I cannot become physically aroused anymore does not mean I don't get hot in other ways. My hard on comes from my head. It's a mental stimulation, a memory of what once was. And I could tell as I spoke of sex, she became hot as well. She crossed her legs and I noticed she wasn't wearing any panties.  She licked her already wet lips. The leather let out a dull squeak as she inched closer to me, as she looked into my eyes. Although I was the vampire, it seemed as if she was hypnotizing me. She reached out and touched my jaw, her warm fingers running down my face, a warmth I haven't felt in so long. I'm always cold, so cold, and her fingers were like fire. She pressed to continue, to go on with all the ways in which I could make up for my vampiric impotence.

Oh, and to bite someone is to make love to them. It’s almost as good as the real thing. There are so many similarities between sucking necks and having intercourse. The neck is smooth and warm, the blood just under the surface of the skin provides the heat to initiate action . The neck throbs in ecstasy. It’s wet and delicious. And when we reach the point of penetration, after our teeth elongate and become firm, we sink into a state that is solidly sublime. Once I’m inside of her, our bodies are joined.

She began to get really turned on, her chest heaving out, close enough so that her breasts brushed against my chest. Both of her hands were on my face as she pulled me in for another kiss. This one felt so different, so much warmer, so much more tender. My lips tingled as our mouths mingled. She tore off my shirt and I ripped her dress off in one quick motion. We stood there, both topless, my stomach rock hard and her breasts like two perfect planets orbiting her torso.  Our hands attacked each others bodies in a throbbing fever. I continued to talk in between kisses.

And for as long as I’m sucking the sweet sustenance from her, our veins pulse at the same time. She breathes life and love into my body and I finally feel I am alive once again. And I am human again for as long as I'm sucking, for as long as we both share this blood, this crimson creator of life. We are as one, hovering over a perfect harmony of pleasure and pain.  God, don't you want to feel it?  Don't you want to climax from the inside out, to feel the millions of nerves being tingled, to shudder from such ecstasy, to feel it flowing in and out of you, to feel me touching you from inside your skin? 

Holding her body in my arms, something came over me, something so strong I was compelled to complete the task my body had ordered upon me. It was stronger than a sexual drive, more intense than any arousal I had ever felt. My lips made their way from her mouth to her neck. And she was lost in my arms again, just like all those hours ago on my couch. I ran my hand through the softness of her hair and gently pushed her head to one side. A line of translucent blue emerged from her satin skin. My canines carved themselves into points again and I lowered my sights onto that blue. In an instant, I had pierced her soft neck, my teeth passing the skin and flesh and landing in that line of blood. A small whimper passed her puckered lips and then an undecipherable moan filled my apartment. I couldn't tell if it was from the pleasure or the pain. Where was she on this journey? Where was I?  My teeth retracted as the punctured vein produced that sweet substance from her neck. It bubbled up like oil, thick and dark and revolting yet irresistible.  The coppery crimson liquid flowed like a waterfall from her body and I sucked it down in satisfaction.

"Yes, yes," she said. "You're doing it. You're turning me. And we'll be together forever." 

I could feel the smile on her face injected into those disgusting words. Yes, I was going to change her, to keep her with me, explore her further.  I was going to tear her apart and piece her back together, make her follow me, make her lick my feet and wash my hair.  Oh, God, the blood was going to my head.  Sweet, delicious, disgusting blood.  My eyes rolled back from behind closed lids.  It was all happening so fast, my brain buoyant in the red stuff.  I was getting close, coming to the brink of her burning.  I had to stop.  Wet, sloppy noises took over her moaning.  She grew silent, her breath easy and fluid.  

"I love you," she whispered in an exhalation of breath. 

My blue or brown or black eyes shot open.  My tongue ran over the puncture wounds like a vacuum.  This girl had done something to me, something I wanted to learn more about. But, her words reminded me of her incessant ignorance and her vapid shallowness. If only she would have kept her mouth shut, just like most girls should. It seems every time they open their lips for anything other than insertion, they ruin everything.  I continued sucking, let the moment overtake me as I was overtaking her. I would not turn her. I would not let her survive. I was reaching nirvana with every drop.  And as the blood slowly drained from her body, the pain and the emptiness set in. And she knew it. She screamed but I muffled her mouth with my perfectly manicured hand. She bit my fingers in desperation, but the pain was insignificant and not enough to let me go. I was no where near hurting as much as she was.  I began to bleed from her bite, my blood smearing all over her mouth.  Choking.  Wheezing.  Muffled excruciation.

"How's it taste?" I asked her. 

When I first bit into this idiot child, I was reminded of the time I was the one on the receiving end of the puncture. And I realized I was just repeating history, doing the exact same thing that was done to me. This girl had fallen in love with me and I had strung her along, having made up my mind from the start that I would kill her. But, to my credit, some reservations did manage to seep into my thoughts.  I played with the idea of turning her.  I guess I forgot to tell her vampires are fickle as hell.  She should have known it was coming.  After explaining all that blood does, all that it means to us, how could she not understand our insane lust over the flow of red? And I knew that I would no longer string her along. I knew I could not turn her and then abandon her like was done to me. No, this girl was too pathetic. She only deserved to die. I felt a responsibility to end her sick sadness. I was doing her a favor.  Letting her down not so gently.  Community service.

I realized there was a lesson to be learned from my exchange with this empty, lonely girl. There was a clarity in the crimson. I had tried to change, had tried to love this bag of blood, but my carnal cravings had conquered this crush I had developed for her. I learned that you are who you are and there is nothing that can do to rearrange or interrupt the natural cycle of your existence. It is the blood, not love, that keeps me going, that preserves my pale skin, that maintains my sexual magnetism. I learned that love is found in a heart that beats and not a vampire that eats. I granted her a gift alright, just not the gift she wanted, not the gift that only I can give. I did not grant her the gift of eternal life, but that of death, a gift anyone could have granted her. It’s unfortunate she sought me out. Her mission for immortality was wasted. And so was her time. But, not mine. I benefited from our erotic encounter.

When her body was fully drained, before her last breath, she let out a scream reminiscent of ecstasy.  Her body shuddered and I savored her death throes. And I realized that this was better than sex any day. To have a belly full of blood and a girl's life climaxing in my arms is more enjoyable than any orgasm I've ever had in humanity. I wondered if it was as good for her as it was for me.  I allowed her emptied and lifeless body to slip from my well defined arms and fall to the floor in a crumpled heap, her warm, wet juices dripping down my chin. And I thought of how it reminded me of old times...

I thought I had loved her but I realized I had mistaken love for hunger pains.

The End.