Joe Vampire Read online

  Copyright © 2012 Steven Luna

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover photo by Marie Luna.

  Cover Design by Patty Wallace.

  Layout by Victoria Wolffe.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  ISBN 978-1-935961-67-3

  For further information regarding permissions, please contact

  [email protected].

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911334

  DEDICATION

  This one is for Betty,

  who told me she could see me being a writer.

  And she wasn’t wrong.

  I love you everything -

  Dave

  Contents

  POST 1

  POST 2

  POST 3

  POST 4

  POST 5

  POST 6

  POST 7

  POST 8

  POST 9

  POST 10

  POST 11

  POST 12

  POST 13

  POST 14

  POST 15

  POST 16

  POST 17

  POST 18

  POST 19

  POST 20

  POST 21

  POST 22

  POST 23

  POST 24

  POST 25

  POST 26

  POST 27

  POST 28

  POST 29

  POST 30

  POST 31

  POST 32

  POST 33

  POST 34

  POST 35

  POST 36

  POST 37

  POST 38

  POST 39

  POST 40

  POST 41

  POST 42

  POST 43

  POST 44

  POST 45

  MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE

  POST 1

  My Name is Joe, and I’m a Vampire…

  NOTE TO THE READER: If you are female, between the ages of thirteen and forty-two, and you’ve stumbled onto my blog thinking we’d be chatting about those bitchin’ vampire kids from the Nightfall novels, back away very slowly and refresh your Google search. You’re in exactly the wrong place for that kind of crap, my friend.

  And I make no apologies for it.

  This blog is not a fan site; it’s an attempt to clear up several untruths about what it means to be a vampire – a REAL vampire, not the glittery make-believe kind you’ve come to know and pine for. Before you roll your eyes and flip over to Facebook to check your farm, let me say this: I’m not asking for cash, not representing anyone’s cause, and I’m way too cynical to be a poster child for anything. That’s not what this is. I just think the truth about vampires would surprise people, given all the folklore we’ve been fed about the subject. It sure surprised me when I found out… on a first-hand basis.

  Turns out it’s not all satin capes and naked ladies throwing themselves at you… none of it is, actually. At least not so far. One naked lady would be nice. As a relative newcomer to this altered existence, it’s quite possible I don’t have all the facts; maybe being inducted into the undead improves over time and I haven’t been in it long enough to reap the benefits. Or maybe I’m just slogging through some sort of deep-seated regret about what’s happening to me without having to pay a therapist, kind of a mid-life crisis for someone with no chance of having a mid-life anymore. And who has mother issues.

  But that’s for a different blog.

  I’m guessing I’m not the only one afflicted with this condition, and like most of you out there I get the gist of the whole vampire thing. But while it may be a rocking good time for some, I have to assume that it’s really just a huge freaking pain for the majority of us. It is for me, anyway. And before any of you vampire-rights activist types get your Team Fredward panties stuck up your ass, let me assure you of something that seems to be an issue these days for a lot of folks about a lot of situations: I did NOT choose this. Knowing now how it feels, I’m pretty sure you’d have to be some sort of masochist to bring something as confusing and alienating as this into your life on purpose (no offense to the masochists out there). That being said, I don’t want to portray myself as a victim, either. Just sort of an unlucky dude who got stuck in a situation he didn’t see coming, and who can maybe enlighten someone out there to how it really is. Granted, there are plenty of people who have based their opinions on schlocky pop literature and movie house glam, who think something like this would be an exciting step up from the daily grind and have no interest in hearing the real deal. But you are being sold a crock of shit, my friends – pure and simple.

  Crock. Of. Shit.

  It’s not hard to see where the confusion comes from: modern marketing has mind-fucked us into believing that there is some inner beauty, some fiery dick-lengthening confidence that comes from being transformed in this way. I’m not immune; I drank the Kool-Aid, too. But it’s just not true. If anything, being saddled with this unrealistic circumstance is likely to rob you of what little confidence you might have had prior and give you a sad, final kick backward into the realm of skeezy freakdom, just when you were coming into your own. No one really ever shows you that side of the story, though; they push the opposite instead. And to the extreme. Every work of fiction, from print to film to television, does its best to make the case for vampirism as the direct and effortless path to an extensive Hollister wardrobe and some mad sway over horny high school girls. If that were the case, I’d have a hell of a lot more to do on a Friday night than sitting around my house with one hand in my underwear, starting a blog with the other.

  Whoa. That was more pervy than I meant it to be.

  Sorry. Still kind of new to this blogging thing.

  Please be patient with the noob.

  This is what life is for me at the moment, now that I’ve unwittingly become somewhat less than fully alive. It’s still sinking in, but I’m seeing more and more how this vampire shit really goes down, and the truth bears exposing. I may not succeed in getting it all to make sense, but at least I’ll be able to say I wasn’t one of the opportunistic marketing geniuses who keep promoting the idea of vampirism as a lifestyle choice for profit. AdSense hits notwithstanding.

  But whatever.

  I’m not a hater; my intention in all of this isn’t to slam the pretty boys and girls of pop-lit and sub-network TV, and no doubt this phenomenon can probably turn out to be something rad for people who were already swimming in the Hollywood end of the human gene pool prior to changing. But I’m from somewhere closer to the other end of the pool, the one that needs a tad more chlorine – you know, where people head when they have to pee but don’t feel like getting out of the water. Yeah… that’s my pool: peed in and getting greener every second.

  Okay. So maybe that’s a slight exaggeration.

  And way more pathetic than it needs to be.

  I know the deal; I accept my lot. I didn’t choose it, but it’s mine and I’m ready to face it head-on. I’m just trying to provide a counterbalance to the renewed romantic slant that 21st century corporate media has given to
being a vampire by shedding some long-overdue light on the facts. I’d like nothing more than to use this blog to expose the reality behind the myth, and straighten out the perception of how it really is being some pathetic, half-living creature with one foot in the grave. And also, what it’s like to be a vampire. Truth be told, it sucks big-time.

  And yes, the crappy pun was absolutely intended.

  But I’ll keep that in check from here on out.

  POST 2

  The Personals

  Here’s a little more about me, in case you’re interested in the man – or whatever I am now – behind the blog:

  • I’m thirty-two years old, but on a good day I could pass for a twenty-nine year-old with a receding hair line.

  • I’ve been told that my prominent chin, perpetual smirk and kind eyes make me look like the love child of Dustin Hoffman and Flo from the Progressive Insurance commercials. Since this description is often followed by the adjective cute, I generally take it as a compliment. Really, though, it could go either way.

  • I’m a data analyst for a financial service company. It’s slightly less sexy than it sounds.

  • I play synth bass in a techno-sleaze band called Vomiting Nonsense… also not so sexy, as the name will attest.

  • I’ve had exactly two full-fledged relationships in my life – both with real, live women and both of which ended painfully in scorching adultery (them, not me), several weeks spent under a coffee table eating spray cheese and Nutella (me only) and a greatly increased chance of developing a chronic STD (them and me). The first one started in high school and lasted six years; the last one started shortly thereafter and ended earlier this year. Genital warts have yet to mound.

  • My family – mother, father, sister and brother – is terribly Jewish… and by “terribly”, I mean “not good at it”. They’re at their most Jew-esque during Hanukkah, Passover, and on occasions that call for gross displays of guilt and unqualified suffering. Funerals and family reunions are always a treat. The rest of the time they’re vaguely principled people descended from actual Jews, but with no inclination toward any real spirituality at all. I’m closest to my sister; my brother is something of a douchebag.

  • I’m more of a homebody than an out-and-about body… less and less by my own choosing.

  • I’ve been a vampire for a little less than three months. The training wheels are still firmly in place.

  I wouldn’t say everything in my life up to the vampire part was spectacular, especially after the second break-up, so it’s not like there was much to be ruined. The two relationships were nice, but obviously for me only. My career doesn’t make any dreams come true, though I get by pretty comfortably on what I make and I like most of the people I work with. My band is mediocre, by no fault of my stellar bass playing or the rhythmic finessing of my best bud Hube; it’s our self-appointed leader Dwayne – or Lazer, as he christened himself using his Rock Star Name decoder ring – who tends to shit everything up during our creative process. I try to tip the scales in mine and Hube’s favor by designating my basement as our rehearsal space, and by having a van big enough to haul our set-up to gigs. I also print all our flyers, make our snacks and keep track of everyone’s leather pants because I live closest to the dry cleaners. I also set up our rigs before and clean everything up after our shows, so either I really love the idea of being part of a middling music group, or I’ve let myself become the band bitch…

  Where was I going with this?

  Anyway, it was my version of a decent life, if uneventful and not particularly noteworthy. I was happy with it, at least. Maybe a little less so since the current womanless phase began, but you can’t be into someone else all the time, right?

  Sometimes, it’s enough just to be into porn.

  I’ll admit that from the outside I might’ve looked a little like a shut-in. I might’ve looked like that from the inside, too, come to think of it. But what is a shut-in if not a person who truly appreciates the comforts of home in a way that eludes the general populace? I appreciated the shit out of those comforts, things like twenty-four hour sweatpants, spontaneous napping and the narcotic effects of cream-filled snack foods and soft drinks. Just because my style of interaction with others has become slightly more removed than most would think is healthy, does that diminish my ability to interact face-to-face without making a total ass of myself? No.

  Not mostly, anyway.

  I’d probably know better if I actually interacted with people face-to-face on a more regular basis.

  At this point, with my romantic history I’m way more comfortable getting to know people from a distance. I don’t think that necessarily makes me antisocial. And who really cares if I let my gym membership lapse because it was easier to sit on the couch streaming all eight seasons of Full House than it was to schlep three blocks just so I could walk to nowhere on a freaking treadmill? Without a sense of history for where the Olsen twins began, one can never truly appreciate how far those brilliant little style moguls have come. And what difference does it make that I’ve turned down every happy hour invitation, every guys night opportunity, every blind date set-up arranged by my many well-meaning co-workers to stay home by myself instead?

  I’m not really making a strong case here, am I?

  That’s fine. I’m not an idiot; I’ve watched Dr. Phil. I know it’s completely possible to be alone without being lonely… though judging by what I’ve just written it seems far less possible to be alone without seeming like a borderline sociopath. But you can definitely give lonely a solid kick in the balls. Having the Tanner family in your TV for moral support doesn’t hurt. And, as I have discovered over these past few months, there can be more than one definition of alone. It all depends on how willing you are to delude yourself about the level of loserhood you don’t believe you’ve descended to. For instance, it’s much different to be alone because you’ve had a bad run of luck with women who’ve turned out to be lying, psychotic whores than it is to be alone because you’ve been turned into a bloodsucking freak.

  It’s all a matter of self-delusion.

  To illustrate further: one kind of alone is self-imposed, a sort of refuge you create out of fear that your presence among others will only cause repulsion and heartache. Even in the most casual of social situations, people can sense the changes you’ve gone through no matter how much you work to cover them up. Some will be kind enough to put up a brave front for you, going out of their way in an attempt to sympathize with your condition. But you know they’re just pretending they aren’t thoroughly terrified of you. You know it isn’t how you chose to be; it’s just something that happened, something beyond your control and now you’re stuck with it, unsettling though it is for you or anyone in your vicinity. But it doesn’t matter how you rationalize it – you’re not who you used to be; they know it, and you know it. And so, you keep your distance to spare everyone the horror of interacting with the sub-human ghoul you’ve turned into.

  The other kind of alone happens when you become a vampire.

  See how that is? Two entirely different alones.

  Actually, that’s just lame. There’s only one definition: alone means alone. It doesn’t matter what kind of disconnected loser you become. And though it may not be much fun staying at arm’s length from practically everyone, it hurts a hell of a lot less than the alternative. If you’ve been through some rough shit, there shouldn’t be any shame in being a little gun shy afterward. And who knows? Maybe you’d be open to being a little more social eventually, if all the right elements were to fall into place. But it might take something really special to make that happen. Meanwhile you have your laptop to keep your crotch warm and a box of Star Crunches that isn’t going to eat itself. And that’s fine, too.

  I’m determined to not have it be this way forever, though. For now, it is what it is.

  It’s sort of difficult to explain in writing, but I can’t help feeling that the Olsen twins would understand.

  Mary K
ate? Ashley? If you happen to be reading this, hit me back.

  POST 3

  These are a Few of My Unfavorite Things…

  As a warning to others about just how thoroughly not glamorous it is to be a vampire, I think I should describe the physical effects on a human body after being transformed into one – which, in the interest of conserving precious blog space, will now be referred to as This whenever possible. This, as in, “This really blows,” or “This is so totally fucked up,” or “You can take This back and shove it up your ass; I don’t need it anymore.” Hopefully that little maneuver will shrink the experience vampirition into a tiny, manageable concept, thereby keeping it from sounding too sexy or romantic or transcendent. It may seem terribly mystical when you say being transformed, but it’s about as esoteric as a raging case of diarrhea.

  During the lowest point of the process, it actually is a raging case of diarrhea.

  If only it would have finished up as predictably as that. At least I could have looked forward to a happy conclusion: two days of living on the toilet, then rehydrate with a couple bottles of Gatorade and on with my life I would go. But whatever I was shitting out wasn’t going to be replaced by a sports drink. And it just kept… on… going. Mind you, I had no idea at the time that what was happening to me was actually This, so I really thought it wouldn’t outlast my supply of Charmin Ultra. Toward the end, I was wiping my ass with dish towels.

  Dish towels.

  It came on after a rare night out – which came after a very long spell of almost no nights out (see previous post) – and started innocently enough with symptoms that WebMD told me could be either a hangover, the flu or the onset of gonorrhea. It could easily have been all three of these, given my historic lack of self-care and a small, ill-advised love affair I apparently had with a tray of dynamite rolls at the Samurai Ham on Rye Sushi Deli Cafe. It’s difficult to recall the details, possibly because of all the sake bombers. Or possibly because I was being changed into the living dead.

  Tends to make the memory a little hazy.

  And after the process had ended, there was an undeniable permanent shit-feeling state that wouldn’t go away, which clued me in to the idea that something more sinister was happening. And it had nothing to do with raw fish or rice wine. But it did have something to do with that night.