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.

Blood: I Only Love You For Your Body

This tender and all too trusting young girl still wasn’t convinced. Yet, I was completely convinced of her utter incompetence.  Sitting there, nothing more than a doggy bag of blood to me.  Perky breasts.  Glitter in her eyes.  Wonder.  Amazement.  Idiocy.  I guess my monologue on my mammoth obsession for blood wasn’t enough to turn her away from being turned. There she was, gripping the couch, her lacquered fingernails pressing hard into the leather.  She was licking her lips, hanging on every word I said.  My talk of addiction didn't sway her, send her screaming for the door that she wouldn't be able to escape.  I suppose she has an addictive personality. Perhaps I had only reinforced her idea of being undead. Perhaps I only stoked the fire for her hopes of fangs. Perhaps her stupidity was only out-shined by her curiosity, a curiosity that fought against logic and fear. This girl had balls. I was a vampire who had brought her back to my place solely to suck on her neck yet she showed no signs of fear on her feather light features. And she was interested in me, in my lifestyle. And I couldn’t help but to feel something among all of this madness. Among this shroud of sheer absurdity over this situation, I saw something shining in her eyes. My powerful perception told me it was more than a curiosity. It was more than a yearning to be something else. It was an interest in the man behind the pale skin and seductive stare. And what was even more bizarre was the fact that I might have been feeling the same way about her. I wanted to know more about this girl, this empty headed and entirely fake girl. I wanted to see what was beyond all the plasticine and perfume. I wanted to see the girl’s insides. And for the first time in a long time, I meant it metaphorically. I was drowning out her droning on about becoming one of my kind, when I heard the word "love" bubble up from her plumped lips. My attention snapped back and I asked her to repeat herself. She said she would absolutely love to become a vampire. I told her that would be the last thing she'd ever love.  Lesson two:

The problem with love is that vampires can't. We are simply incapable of doing so. When the body dies, love is left to rot. The body is preserved, but the heart decays. You claim my condition is a gift you want me to give you. In fact, it’s no gift at all. It’s a curse. This curse of the vampire is that we are removed from love. Love originates from the heart and since our hearts don’t work anymore, neither does our capacity to care. I have feelings that are limited to anger and frustration. I've never felt warmth since turning. I have never felt happiness on my own, only that empty kind of happiness that seeps from strangers, the kind I lavishly lap up.  Ultimately, though, it's unsatisfying, like drinking chalk.

Although I am no longer human, I still carry some human attributes. Mainly, all the negative ones. It seems as if my emotions have been filtered, only leaving the offensive ones behind, bitterness being the biggest one. I'm bitter that I'm not alive, yet I'm not dead. I'm trapped.  It's like being stuck upside down in a hole.  Your spine cramps and the bulk of your body weighs down your lungs.  Breathing becomes labored.  Your existence becomes miserable.  I'm bitter that I have to hunt my food like an animal. I'm bitter that I have become something more, something powerful and wise, something superior to you humans yet I have to hide away like a lower class creature.  It's like discovering you can fly but you have to keep your feet glued to the ground.  I'm bitter that I can feel what everyone else feels but I have no genuine feelings of my own, except those of rage and regret.

We seek out love but it is impossible. You see, love leaks into the veins. It’s pumped throughout the body by the heart. And for vampires to find love, we must seek it through sucking. Not to tarnish my image or display my weaknesses to you but we vampires are lonely creatures, too. This is another one of our human-like characteristics. What humans don’t understand is that death does not diminish the need to connect. We seek out victims, not with malicious intent, but with the need to feel close to someone. We are always so cold, always so ice cold. We can’t feel the sun and we can’t feel the skin of the living, not unless we are tearing it off.  The only way to feel warm is to smear that blood on ourselves, to ingest it and feel that sickening syrup slowly slide through our bodies.  God, doesn't that sound pathetic? Another reason I hate myself.  There's this inner conflict, this tangle of superiority and human-like weakness that spins inside me like nails in a blender. 

As much as I believe otherwise, vampires are viewed by the majority of you humans as a subspecies.  I guess there are those like you who realize we are exceptional but by most we are unneeded and unwanted. No one would ever choose to love a vampire. And even if they did, we can’t love back. Since they don’t choose us, present company excluded, we must choose them, love them against their will, and force a love out of them that is empty and unsatisfying. It seems cruel but it is a means for survival. It's no different from you humans. When I'm at that club, I see men stalking their prey just like I do. And at the end of the night, you are used up in very much the same way, just used for sex instead of blood.  Except, with them, you live to tell about it. But, really, am I all that different? We are forced to feed on blood, not only for nourishment, but a little connection.  Isn't that all you men and women are looking for, a little connection, a little contact to make you feel less alone in this great red world?  Without that connection, we are loveless. And without love, we are nothing.  And nobody wants to be nothing, not the highest ranking creatures or the scum of the earth.  Love, all consuming, all negating love is still at the center of everything.  As much as I hate it, love does transcend death.  Love still matters to every living, dying and dead thing.  Although vampires have been ushered into the underworld, we still retain the knowledge of what is important in life, a life that has been robbed of us, a life we still yearn for. Although we cannot obtain love, it is still a goal of ours. We still want it just as much as we did when we were alive. And perhaps that is our ultimate punishment. Not only are we locked away from the light, but from love as well. And we seek that love, very much in vain, through the veins. But, don't get so uppity. You humans do it, too. You all look for love in all the wrong places. Usually the wet ones.

I fell in love only once before I became a vampire. It was with the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Even after all these hundreds of years, I have never met anyone as beautiful as her. You don't even come close. I was immediately smitten with this beauty. It wasn't only her face, or her breasts, but it was her grace, her charm, her love that pulled me in to her. Unfortunately, the joke was on me. Turns out, she was a just another vampire and all those qualities of her character were a facade. She reeled me in just like I did to you.  Do you get it yet?  Are you paying attention, you twit?  Don't think I am interested in you.  Don't think my eyes shine for you.  For as I said, vampires just don't exhibit those kind of warm characteristics. It was just the mechanics of a vampire, those fake feelings that force unsuspecting victims to fall into their fangs. I wanted to give her my heart, but all she wanted was my blood. She strung me along for a few weeks before she bit me. Sometimes, I feel the greatest pain she plunged into me was not her teeth, but the hopes for some great love, a promise of something more than myself. She kept me around just long enough for me to fall in love with her. She had fooled me, had betrayed me into thinking I had found something real for the first time in my existence. I suppose my only consolation was the fact that she turned me and didn't just kill me. Hm, some consolation.  She even kept me around for a little while after I became a vampire. But, it was only long enough to teach me how to survive being a blood sucker. She soon left me and I was left so bitter. For the longest time I questioned her motives for turning me into a vampire. At first, I thought she was doing it so we'd be together forever. Then, I thought maybe she did it out of pity, that the time we had spent together maybe actually meant something to her and she didn't have the..."heart" to just kill me. I'll never know her true intentions. But, it couldn't have been love. I am convinced of that.  Love does not hurt.  Love does not transform.  Love does not kill.

But, it doesn't stop me from seeking it. And the closest thing I've come to feeling love is feeding on lovers. I like to search out the most vulnerable, most desperate girls I can find. Those are the tastiest. They have so much love within them and no one to give it to. Their blood is spiked with it.  So, I gladly take it. All that blood infused with so much love just tastes so sweet. It's just like red sugar. And that drug effect takes place once again, lined with love. That bitterness inside, the remnants of humanity, dissipates for as long as the blood coats my cuspids. You see, I don't just crave blood for the numbing properties, but for the bits of love that linger in the lining of the veins. It retards my regression into madness. Without that love located in the blood, I would disappear into the darkness.

To be continued...

Blood: Eternal Entropy

My dinner sat across from me on my couch. I admit I was both intrigued and angered by her lack of fear in regards to my condition. My immediate reaction was to tear her to pieces. How dare she not tremble in my presence! But what had angered me had also sparked a curiosity within, a dull burning I had not felt in years. It was some sort of...desire, a lust for more than nourishment. It was a lust for knowledge, a lust to know more about this meal. It was a lust for expression. Instead of being scared, this girl was stupid with excitement over meeting me, an actual existing vampire. She even informed me I was the reason she went to that particular club. She had heard it was a popular vampire hang out. And that’s why she made sure she went alone. She then proceeded to deliver a sob story that I didn’t really care to hear.  Something about intentionally  making herself an easy target with the short dress that exposed most of her tight body, the hair that was styled within an inch of its life, the makeup like plaster.  All of it in an effort to be picked up, all in an effort to find someone to show her a little love. Man after man had taken her and thrown her away, much like I was going to do, all because she thought she couldn’t do better. She felt her life was miserable, meaningless, so that’s why she wanted to become one of us. So utterly misguided.  She had naive fantasies of how much better things would be for her as a night walker. She dreamed of the power and the strength and her ability to finally be the one in control. And of course, who wouldn’t want to live forever? Her pathetic story only made me want to kill her even more, to put her miserable existence to an end. And then she asked me about the blood. Did I truly crave it? Was it enjoyable? Did blood taste different from victim to victim? Oh, the blood. It is so much more than a liquid that spills down the throat. The power of blood cannot be comprehended until you have turned and tasted the intoxication of crimson. Until then, that wet matter that courses through your body cannot be truly appreciated.  Lesson one:

Blood is actually a disgusting form of food. Vampires do not gain pleasure from piercing necks. Blood is thick and viscous, a texture that slips sickeningly past the tongue. It's warmth is not satiating, but sickening. It's coppery coating glues itself to the tongue and sticks to the roof of the mouth. It doesn't go down easily.  It's a struggle to swallow, yet uncompromisingly irresistible.

Despite my immortality, I am dying every day. I am immortal, yet I am decaying. My skin is tight, but my mind is loose and unraveling. According to your narrow view of time, I have been a vampire quite a while, a few decades.  But when you think about how long I'm going to be around, it only amounts to the bat of one of your fakes eyelashes.  And despite time being a dead, obsolete device to me, I cannot imagine stretching myself into eternity. I cannot comprehend forever. I am locked into this body with no escape. For anyone else, it might be a dream come true but I am existing in a nightmare. Eternity isn’t such a dream for someone who hates themselves. You see, I have a slight problem with self-loathing.  I'm a bit depressed.  Or, I was when I was alive.  Turning into a vampire didn't change that.  I grew stronger, sharper, but felt as discontent as ever.  Don't think you'll change for the better, either.  You'll still be as sad and pathetic as you are now.  You humans always dream of better things, always wait for some kind of mystical transformation that will never come.  You don't make the effort to change yourselves.  You sit on your hands and wait for someone or some thing else to do it for you.  When I realized my sadness would be my only true companion until the end of everything, I considered ending myself right then. I've played with the idea of stepping into the sun and smelling the sweet sulfur as my skin burns, cracks and dissolves in the daylight. But, there’s something that keeps me in the shade. It’s the drive to live, the drive to maintain. It’s a drive that is even stronger than the human will to live, that instinct to just exist.  You see, there is evil in all of us, lurking in our limbs. It is while we are human that we learn to control this evil, to conquer or at least contain our foul tendencies. But, becoming a vampire unleashes that evil in us.  It's a door that comes off the rusted hinges, a gaping wound in which all the agony comes spilling out.  It consumes our corpses and causes us to rise again, to spread our evil like a disease through the blood. And that evil is eternal. Weak humans have the choice of ending their lives. Vampires have no say in the matter. Evil has a will to live that is stronger than anything I have ever felt in my years of existence, in life and in death. It is a presence that shall never perish.

To make matters worse, vampires are ultra sensitive to everything around them. In a crowd, I can feel whatever anyone and everyone else is feeling. When I walk into a club, I am bombarded by sexual tension, excitement, obsession, depression and desperation. I've come to learn that these clubs and crowds of people are more messed up than they let on. Humans are blinded by bodies.  They cannot see past flesh, cannot comprehend beyond the tongue and hands and genitals.  Words so easily fool you.  You all are not intuitive enough to see what people are like on the inside.  Even more pathetic, you do not care enough to try.  But as for me, I can't help but to know what you all look like without the protective coating of flesh and clothing.  Let me tell you that no one is normal. I can feel everyone's flaws. I can tap into everyone's pain and it's sickening. Being human casts a veil of protection over your heart because you can't handle the reality. Humanity hazes your vision of the true world. It numbs the nerves. But, for me, I can feel every prickling portion of pain of those around me. I am exposed to the suffering of souls. I am never at ease. The pain is ever present. But, that is just one part to my assortment of abilities.

We are also imbued with powers of persuasion. Our eyes can pierce souls. Our hands can provide pleasure. Our kisses are quite literally intoxicating. And these abilities are solely for the purpose of obtaining prey. These skills help us survive. And the pain gives us the drive to devour. For you see, the only substance that can stifle my suffering is blood. My sexually hypnotizing nature is what helps me get what I need, built into me like the speed of a cheetah or the powerful jaws of a shark, and the pain that pummels all of my parts is what keeps me coming back for more.

Blood is like a drug. It numbs these foul feelings that consume me. You know, I never realized how bad humans had it until I was surrounded by their suffering. I thought my own depression was as bad as I'd ever feel.  Taking on the suffering of others only compounds the hatred I have for myself.  It amazes me how you all can continue to live under the circumstances of the world.  How you all don't slit your wrists or shoot yourself in the head is a mystery to me.  I wonder what keeps you all going, what makes you wake up into a world of chaos. It’s been so long since I’ve been human, I don’t even remember what it’s like to live for something. What do humans live for?  What is there to live for, anyway? You all lug around your loneliness and carry your pain in your pocket and yet forge ahead in these frustrating times. It’s a conundrum. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you all don't kill yourselves.  If you did, I'd go hungry.  I mean, you really don't want to die, do you?  It's not the death you're seeking, it's the release from the pressure, that vice grip on your heart.  You only see the end product, the vampire you'll become.  You don't think about the process, how you'll have to endure death to enter eternity, how my venom will trickle through you, burning at every cell, taking you over from the inside out, killing you endlessly.  Is it worth it to you?  You think you know pain.  Your pain has all been in the mind.  You have never tasted pain, never even come close.

No, blood is nothing you’d want to have taint your tongue. It has the texture of phlegm. It stains the mouth. It burns the throat. Yet, from the first sip, you’ll never recover. Believe me, there’s no going back. When I was human, I befriended several drug addicts, even ate a few after I turned, and their tales of drug lust are nothing compared to going too long without blood. That’s an indescribable pain that cannot be articulated.  It's worse than the pain of humanity, more searing than the flames of hell. Cigarettes, alcohol, methamphetamines, Coke, X, all dissolve in death. But, blood sticks to your bones. All those synthetic addictions pale in comparison to the taste of blood, how it transcends all troubles, how it temporarily kills that pain that crawls up my neck and digs into my brain. It’s something I hate, yet can’t “live” without, just like how I hate you humans but can't go on without you, either. I’m in a constant struggle between lust and loathing. The thing I need the most, yet hate the most, can only be provided by the things I need the most, yet hate the most. As with any drug, the euphoria of flowing blood soon fades. Then, it’s time to kill again. I don’t particularly enjoy killing people, just so you know.  Yes, I'm a monster but I'm not a monster just for the sake of being one. Don’t get me wrong, I could care less if you humans live or die.  You all are as inconsequential to me as a cockroach.  As long as there are enough of you blood bags to keep my belly full, I could care less about the rest of your population.  Yet, I take no particular enjoyment in taking lives. I’m not some sick serial killer who seeks satisfaction from slashing throats. I only kill to live. Am I really any worse than you who kill animals for your sustenance?  Sure, they are simple creatures in comparison to you but you are a simple creature in comparison to me.  In fact, I’m doing humans a favor.  Death opens the door to peace. I unlock that door.  The question is, do you deserve death, that final path to peace? Maybe I don't get much pleasure from killing but I do enjoy a little torture.  You anger me.  You make me out of my mind with your stupidity.  Maybe I should grant your wish.  If I were merciful, I'd drain you and let you die.  But, maybe I should I extend your suffering into an incessant existence, present you with this "present" you have deemed the perfect solution to quell your crushed heart. Maybe I'll make you my pet.  Should I spare you the torment of a truly tortured existence or let you find out for yourself how horrific my "life" really is?

To be continued...

Blood: Prologue to a Puncture

A work of fiction written July 2007.

When she asked me to tell her about myself, I thought why not. I had some time to...kill. After all, the night was still young and I had no need to go out again. I knew from the second I saw her that she’d be coming home with me.

I first noticed her across the dance floor in a trendy club uptown, some cramped building with monochromatic colors and minimalistic furniture.  I was leaning against the wall with an overpriced drink in my hand, a few ounces of ruby-colored vodka.  I was looking, waiting, salivating.  Suddenly, like a curtain that unveils to reveal a grand prize, the sea of people parted, leaving her single in my sights. She was standing at the bar, a mixture of nerves and excitement along her brow, just above her immaculate eye makeup. I could tell this wasn’t the first time she had been in the club. She looked around, not as if she were new, only slightly uncomfortable. I guessed she had been here before, but with girl friends. This was the first time she had come alone. Her brunette stick straight hair was parted down the middle and arranged in front of her breasts which were barely covered by her tight fitting shimmer dress. The strobe lights illuminated her hair and skin in a technicolor of tints. Her face was lineless, clueless.  Her body taut, tasty.  She was young, tender, smooth. Most importantly, I could tell she was easy.

I slid my way past the gyrating bodies and headed straight for this girl, this tasty morsel who out-shined the rest of the plastic people who were slinging their drinks and grinding their crotches into each other. She noticed me coming toward her and turned away. A shy smile spread across her glossed lips. In that instant I knew she would do whatever I wanted. I slid my way next to her and introduced myself. Her smile grew wider and whiter. Perfect teeth.  Fake.  I knew she thought I was hottest guy in the club. I was.  I wasted no time and quickly offered to buy her a few drinks. We engaged in small talk but I knew it was all just a formality and ultimately she’d be back at my place. It was all just meaningless dribble to me. I could care less about this girl and realized she would be a lot hotter without a tongue. Right from the first look into her cloudy eyes, I could see her desperation to be loved. I could smell the loneliness clinging to her clothes. It mingled with the mint in my drink and the delicate perfume which hovered over her like a halo. Her smell made me as intoxicated as I was trying to get her with every fresh drink I put in front of her. She lapped them up like a dog.  Like a little bitch.  She was my favorite type of girl: lonely, painfully insecure. These types were the easiest to bag. After I quelled her comprehension with a couple of Cosmos, I instructed her to leave with me. Yes, instructed. She was not in the right mind to deny me.  The alcohol had allowed me to dominate this girl, although I imagine I could have without it. Still acting like a dog, eager to please me, she agreed to leave with me, a total stranger, a man she had never met yet intended to let screw her. She was desperate for a little attention, hungry for a little affection. I was hungry, too.

On the way to my apartment, she clung to me tighter than her dress clung to her hips. She was a really sad girl. Terribly insecure. She was looking for a strong, handsome man like me to suck away that sadness. I was more than obliged.

I opened the door to my place and she opened her mouth to tousle my tongue. She wasted no time. It had been a long time since she had been in the company of a man. Her hands were everywhere, her breath smelled Jolly Ranchers and innocence.  She peppered my face with soft kisses, her lip gloss smearing across my cheek. I hate when girls do that. Disgusted, I pulled her face off of mine and pushed her onto my couch.  She landed with a soft thud, a coy smile carved into her mouth, her eyes illuminated by lust.  By this reaction, I could tell she liked it a bit rough. Not only was she pathetic and miserable, but there was a touch of kink in her as well.  I could work with that.

I straddled her on the leather couch and with every deep kiss, her moans got louder and I became more aroused. She was dumb and disgusting but she was also smoking hot. I went down to her throat and tickled it with my lips, flicking my tongue over the length of her neck. Her head went back and her shimmering hair fell away from her shoulders. The couch squeaked in response to her wiggling. I love that sound. I placed my hand on her head and clutched a clump of hair, then roughly pulled her head to one side. A giggle floated up from her face.  Yeah, she definitely liked it hard. Maybe she even enjoyed a little pain. I wondered how much she liked. I wondered how bad it would hurt before those screams of pleasure pushed into pain. I’d find out soon enough.

I licked her neck until it was nice and wet, ready for me to penetrate.  A delicate blue vein ran right below her bejeweled ear, presenting itself like a gift.  Just what I was looking for.  I caressed it with my fingers, cajoled it to rise from her skin and finally knew it was time. With her eyes closed she would never see me coming. I opened my mouth and allowed my teeth to elongate. They pushed forth out of my gums and formed razor sharp tips. I went down on her neck slowly, savoring those last few seconds before desire turned into death, licking up and down, softening the skin for easier injection. Just before I could penetrate the soft flesh of her throat, she turned her head and opened her eyes.

Sometimes I have these girls in so much ecstasy they lose all sense of time and location. They usually close their eyes and submit to my seduction. Sometimes they do catch me right before I bite but it doesn't stop me from doing the deed. I prefer them never to notice, as their screams disturb the neighbors. I then have to go to the trouble of speaking to those worthless bags of flesh and apologize to them by lying and say I was having rough, loud sex. That usually gets them off my back, although they are left feeling awkward by my direct openness.  Idiots.  I looked at this sexy, yet stupid girl and she wasn't screaming. She didn't look horrified at all. Actually, she looked quite amused. Her sparkly eyes lit up in wonder. I had to lean back in my perplexity. Her smile became huge. My teeth immediately retracted in disgust and confusion.  An unfortunate case of involuntary shrinkage.

I didn't really know how to go about dealing with this new turn of events so I simply asked her why she was smiling. She excitedly told me I was a vampire.  She acted as if it were some revelation to me, as if she was telling me I had won a million dollars.  I knew who I was but she had no idea the danger she was in.   Her voice rose in an annoyingly high pitched tone that scraped my ears. She told me she had always wanted to meet a real vampire, always wanted to be turned into one herself. I had to laugh at her idiocy. Was she being serious or was she just delusional with fear? I shot a look into her eyes which caused the sparkle to fade. She became the confused one. I informed her that she in fact did not want to become a vampire. It was nothing like in the movies or in those homoerotic books. It was actually a sick existence. But, she only looked at me like I was lying to her, as if I was trying to convince her of something she knew to be untrue. I could tell she was stupid when I first met her, so I guess it was no shock that I couldn't persuade her into believing something she had already made up her mind about.  Stupid, ignorant, stubborn humans.  She was in the dark on the issues and she was intent to remain that way.  I'm I'm to be honest, I was slightly surprised, slightly intrigued to see there was no fear on her overly made up face. This confused me and when I get confused, I get angry.  And when I get angry, I get mean.  And when I get mean, I leave nothing left.  I leave no nerve untouched, no vein uncharted until I place my meal into such unspeakable pain that they beg for death, pray for it.  And I deliver it at a dawdling pace.   Normally, these little girls only have two reactions to me: I make them hot and then I make them scared, which makes me hot. That was the way it has been for years and years. This one was ruining my rhythm.  I was ready to kill her right then and there but something held me back, an indistinguishable something that prevented the puncture.

I guess this girl had piqued my curiosity. I guess there was nothing wrong with keeping her around a little longer, just to see how idiotic she could be. She'd be my entertainment before she was my dinner.  She made herself comfortable on my couch and then propped her chin on her hand. She leaned forward and asked me to describe my “life” as a vampire. I had simply planned on tearing her throat out and after disposing of her body, catching up on some sleep. But, this girl’s stupidity was intriguing. I had never met anyone who was genuinely excited to meet the deliverer of their death. Perhaps it was her inebriation or sheer lack of brain cells, but I suppose she still believed I was interested in her for more than her body. I suppose she believed I wouldn’t harm her. I suppose she believed I’d even grant her my gift. She was lucky I wasn’t too hungry and didn’t have any plans for the rest of the night. I didn’t mind stringing her along for a few hours longer. I know it’s incredibly rude to play with your food, but I have to admit it was a different feeling knowing she was still so into me even after she knew what exactly I was. Besides, I hadn’t engaged in an actual conversation with anyone for years now, if you don't count the usual small talk to lure unsuspecting blood bags back to my apartment. So, I decided to set her straight on what being a vampire truly meant. I leaned back on the other side of the couch and began to explain to her why exactly she should never want to be like me...

To be continued...

Piranha 3D (2010) Review

This Summer 3D Shows Its Teeth

Underwater tremors unleash a slew of ravenous, prehistoric piranhas on the unsuspecting horny teens partying during Spring Break.

What a blast!  If you've seen the trailer for the movie or heard any of the reviews, then you should know the movie is completely silly and made to be enjoyed, not analyzed or deconstructed.  Yes, this movie is all about the boobs, blood and laughs.  And that's okay by me!  As far as story, well, there's not much to it.  As described above, a bunch of flesh-hungry fish are unleashed onto a large group of teens celebrating Spring Break.  This thin plot is there to offer reasoning for why the piranhas are suddenly there, tearing large-breasted women to pieces.

A group of seismologists (AKA more victims) team up with Sheriff Julie Forester (played by the still smoking hot Elizabeth Shue) to investigate the fissure caused by the tremors.  Once two of the members are attacked, one of the piranhas is captured and taken to a marine biologist.  He tells them it's bad, bad news and Julie decides to shut down Lake Victoria, the hot spot for all the Spring Breakers.

Meanwhile, Julie's son, Jake, gets caught up in the Spring Break madness and inadvertently gets caught up in a "Wild Wild Girls" softcore porn shoot.  He takes the "Wild Wild Girls" crew along with his friend/crush, Kelly, on a boat right into the path of the piranhas.  To make matters worse, Jake's little brother and sister find themselves trapped on a small island with no way to escape. 

Julie's cries for the closing of the lake go unheard as the Spring Breakers ignore her warnings and booze it up.  That is, until the piranhas show up.  Gory carnage ensues!

Forget plot, forget story, forget believable characters.  This movie is all about the piranha attacks.  I was surprised that there were very few attacks throughout most of the movie.  While there are a few attacks here and there, the real good stuff doesn't kick in until the last block of the movie but believe me, it is worth the wait.  There's also plenty of female flesh to satisfy any red-blooded hetero male.  And hey, there's even a little peen (no pun intended) for the gay guys to gobble up (pun intended).  And in a pleasant surprise, there was even some tension injected into some of the scenes.  And lastly, it was pretty darn funny in some spots.  As for the 3D aspect, some say it wasn't worth the extra charge.  As far me, I'll agree that the 3D probably wasn't utilized as well as it could have been but I still thought it was effective enough to justify the extra cost.  Side note:  Being able to watch the Resident Evil trailer in 3D alone was worth the two bucks!

All in all, the movie was ridiculous, fast-paced and over the top.  It won't win any Oscars but it doesn't aim to.  It just aims to have fun and I think it accomplished it well.  I would definitely watch it again.

4 out of 5. 

Books & Blogs

I'm finding it increasingly unsettling to try to write a book and keep my blog updated.  How is it that I can split two paths of creativity and expression and give my all to both?  And I wonder to myself do authors also keep journals?  Does Stephen King write his thoughts in a notebook when he's not working on a draft of his next book?  And if so, how can he separate his characters from himself?  How does he express his everyday thoughts creatively while thinking up a whole new world and make it all good?  I suppose it might be easier for him and other writers who write for a living.  You probably find the time, energy and creativity when you don't have to go to a crappy job that zaps everything you need to create beautiful work.

I don't want to act like I have a huge following.  I certainly don't.  I've had this blog for a year and never managed to get more than eleven followers and I actually just recently lost one.  I don't get many views and an average of one comment per post (Thanks Katrina!).  But, I hope the more I write, the more I talk about things, the greater the chances I'll write about something someone wants to read.  And I hope the more I can write readable, relatable things, the more people will continue to read and stay interested in what I have to say.  And maybe they'll tell their friends and people will come and read and stay.

And to build up a following, I have to keep writing, keep putting myself out there.  And the reason why I'm doing this is so that when (or if) my book gets published, there will actually be a group of people out there who will actually buy it.  But how can I get this book written, concentrate my energy on that, when I have to keep writing in here to keep the interest up?  Sure, if I didn't have to work a job that killed me just a little bit more every day, then it could be easy.  Break it up.  A few hours on the book.  A few hours on the blog.  And let's not forget about working on my animation when I get all my stuff together to do it.  Honestly, it doesn't feel too overwhelming.  There's enough hours in the day to do a little bit of everything but as I said, when I come home from work, I am absolutely exhausted.  I've noticed that not only has my writing decreased in frequency but in quality as well.  And I'd hate for anything creative I do to suffer on account of work.  Especially when I'm working toward making writing and animating my work in the future.

I almost feel like at this point it might be good to go ahead and focus on writing the book and then I can try to build a following because the book is already there.  I guess I'm imagining the book selling really well as soon as I put it out there but it most likely won't.  At least, not at first.  As soon as it's done, I can start promoting it and start work on writing in here again and maybe people who read the blog will buy the book and those who buy the book will start reading my blog and it might work out.  Or maybe it won't.  Who knows.  And maybe it will take a while for the book to be a success, if it becomes one at all.  I mean, I guess it would make more sense to make the product and then build an audience rather than build the audience and then have them all wander off while I go away and work on the product.

The only problem is that I feel I have to write or I will explode.  A part of it is keeping my writing out there and another part of it is that I must write in order to keep my brain from clogging up.  It's not about me writing these epic pieces that touch lives and inspire the masses.  It's not about everything I write being perfect.  It's basically just about me dumping all my depression onto paper or into this blog so that I can get it out of my system so that I can focus on something else to worry about.  It's about expression.  It's about release.  And the fact that I'm so insecure and such a perfectionist makes me feel like it does have to be epic and it does have to be inspiring.  Because I'm such a messy person and because my life and body is in shambles, I feel like everything I present to the outside world has to be perfect to make up for my imperfections.  That's why I'm the best freagin' shirt and pant folder at work.  That's why my stacks are always so straight.  That's why my handwriting is so neat.  That's why I'm a maniac.  It's kind of funny how I have to express myself to release the crazy but I make myself crazy by perfecting that release.

I think writing this book will be a good release for me, too, which is another reason why I have to do it, despite putting it off year after year.  It's a release on a grander scale, a more epic episode of expression.  There's a lot of things I haven't shared yet, small things, large things, internal things that went on that I need to talk about to hopefully fill in the gaps between what I've told and how I feel.  It might be stupid and that's okay as long as I get it all out, tell it my way and take the weight off.  So, instead of worrying about the everyday niggling problems, maybe I should focus on getting rid of that overwhelming weight of my college experience, funneling it all into a witty yet reflective memoir that people will hopefully enjoy, relate to and be somewhat enlightened from.

Or maybe it'll be garbage.  Either way I have to do it.  And although I have tons of notes on things I want to write about, maybe I need to shift my focus from blog posts to pages in my book... 

Dressing the Dead

"Will you help me?" the lady asked.

"Sure," I said as I walked over to her.

"I don't guess you carry any of these socks in a single pair?"

"No ma'am," I responded.

"Oh, okay.  I guess I'll just get these and give the other two pair away.  I'm ready, now."

The lady put a couple of packages of underclothes on the counter, along with a pair of socks, jeans, a belt and a button-up blue shirt.  As I was scanning her merchandise, she asked me if I'd separate the briefs, undershirt and socks and put them in a separate bag.  As I started to do so, she stopped me and said she only needed one item from each package.  That was a bit of a strange request and I guess she recognized my slight confusion on my face, most likely due to my uncontrollable eyebrows.

"I only need one shirt, one pair of socks and one pair of underwear.  They're for my son.  I'm burying him in these."

"Oh, no, I'm sorry to hear that," I said softly.  She looked at me through her oval glasses and nodded, a slight smile on her face to show recognition of my condolence.

"I don't even know what size he was.  I just hope this works.  If not, I guess the people at the funeral home can make it work." 

She was an older lady, the skin along her jaw slacked and the usual lines and wrinkles that come with age were present on her face.  Her hair was salt and pepper, the gray wiry and coarse compared to the otherwise smooth texture that was pulled back into a loose bun.

"He would have been fifty in three weeks," she added.  I just shook my head and gave her a look of sympathy.  What else could I say?  There's nothing I could have said, especially not knowing the circumstances and not knowing her well enough to offer any kind of comfort without stepping over some boundary of intimacy between two strangers.  There are things you just don't blurt out to someone you don't know, some things you keep to yourself and some details you don't dare attempt to extract from people you don't know. 

I felt bad for this lady, having to bury her son, something a parent shouldn't have to do, no matter how old they or the child gets.  Even at her age, I could see the grief resting in her features.  I was surprised at how it surprised me, as if the older you get, the less you care.  I've heard it a million times that your children will always be your babies no matter how old they get and this lady showed me the truth in that by the way she leaned on the counter and clutched her chest.  I was half-worried that she might pass out or have a heart attack right there in front of me but she kept herself together pretty well.

I took out a second bag and took out one shirt from the package of shirts, one pair of underwear from the package of underwear and one pair of socks from the package of three.  I then put them in one bag and the remains in another.  She then asked me to place the shirt, belt and jeans in the bag with the single pair of underclothes.  As I was doing so, she said, "He was never a the 'suit-and-tie-type.'"  I prepared a dead man's final wardrobe, touched the underwear that would go around his dead waist, touched the shirt that would go around his dead torso, touched the socks that would go around his dead feet.  It was almost creepy but just mostly sad.  This was going to be the last thing he'd ever wear and I was seeing and touching it.  And it felt like I was taking some small part in sending him off, however odd that might sound.  After the transaction was over, the lady left with her two bags, one filled with her dead son's clothes and another with the remaining items that she would have to find something to do with at some point.  That would probably come much later, after the dressing, after the funeral, after the tears.

I'd say at least about once every week or two I'll have a man or group of men or a man and his sons come in looking for a suit to wear to a funeral.  It's always a stressful situation for me because the customers are usually a little on edge over the shock and sadness of someone close to them dying, which makes my anxiety skyrocket because I don't know if we are ever going to have what they need.  Because we are one of the only places locally that sells suits, and a limited selection at that, we are kind of the last resort, so when we don't have what they are looking for, it only causes their heated emotions to boil over.

I still remember an incident from six years ago when I first worked at the retail store.  A man came in looking for a suit and shirt and tie and he absolutely freaked out on me for some reason that I can't remember now.  The details have slipped away over time but some things I still recall, like his scraggly beard and polyester striped golf shirt.  I remember him ruining my night as well.  He actually came in the next day and apologized, explaining that he had lost his father and was grief-stricken.  I thought it was pretty decent of him to come back and do that and it made me feel a bit better.  Fortunately, I haven't had any more situations like that and so far, everyone's been able to get by with something without blowing up at me.

It's kind of funny how you just can't skirt around death.  It's everywhere and as soon as you try to go out of your way to avoid it, it comes back and makes itself known to you all over again.  You can't even get a reprieve in a retail clothing store. It comes in the form of formal attire with black slacks and saline in the eyes.  And it reminds me of my own expiration, how I'm dead to so many things these days.  I thought I had come to terms with it and tried to move forward, had almost forgotten about it entirely but now I'm brought back to bereavement. 

Is it possible to shake death?  Will I ever feel alive or should I just succumb to the swelling black hole in my heart?  What will my mother bury me in when this body full of bugs and bitterness finally gives out?  And will I even care?  Considering where I might end up, it might be the biggest of my worries, or by far the least...