Here are the symptoms:
1) I have fangs. Not fun, plastic fangs… No, no…actual fangs, attached to my skull, that I was born with, that have been filed down and filled in, in an effort to make me look a little less like that kid on the infamous BAT BOY DISCOVERED! National Enquirer cover.
If you don’t believe me, take a look at my dad. You will notice that his fangs are still intact. They are razor sharp. Terrifying.
There is nothing more simultaneously frightful and fascinating than watching my dad bite into a sandwich. It really makes you feel sorry for that unsuspecting Kaiser roll.
2) I love the taste of blood. As a tot, when injured, while normal kids would run to their mother crying, “Mommy, I got a boo-boo!”, I would, instead, begin sucking the happy injury with the voraciousness of a starving leech. My mother would patiently persuade me that “Good girls don’t suck their blood.” Not their thumb. No, no. Their blood.
3) In daycare, before the horror that was kindergarten, my mother was summoned to the office by the concerned, slightly crunchy day-camp counselor who put it like this, “Well, the good news is…your daughter is a survivor…the bad news is…she’s stabbing all the other little kids with her fork.” Pause. “No one can stop her. She’s drawing blood.”
Now, this is disturbing not only for obvious reasons but, really, for the mysterious origins of such behavior. My mother, my primary caretaker, could best be described, both emotionally and physically, as…a muffin.
Case in point: I just opened a Christmas card from her depicting a little white bunny having a conversation with a little bird, perched atop a branch of holly in the snow. The scene was encased in a silvery white rectangle of sparkling glitter that can only mean one thing…Christmas magic.
Simply put, there was no reason for the lunchtime stabbings. No precedent. And yet, as the Birkenstock-wearing counselor said, with not a little bit of unease, “It’s not just that she’s stabbing them, but it appears that she seems to enjoy stabbing them.”
4) During the day, I am a narcoleptic. It is as if my head were stapled to the ground. If I venture out, there is a danger that I might fall asleep standing up. This is something I did, once, in the Alvarado post office, only to be awakened by a circle of heads above me consisting of a small Guatemalan woman and her five children, who were, surprisingly, equally as concerned.
5) At night, there is nothing I can do to stay inside. It is as if the sun, dropping down, triggers a death-switch that catapults me mercilessly, ruthlessly, into the night and all the trouble that Echo Park has to start and some other desperate place has to finish.
6) Any one of the unlucky few who have made it into my inner sanctum will tell you that there is, uncannily, no way of telling time. In said sanctum, it has been said that it’s impossible to tell whether it’s 3am or 3pm. And, I’d like to think, it’s impossible to care. (But that is my MASSIVE EGO talking, which, also, may be just another indicator of vampirism. Vampires seem to be kind of full of themselves, don’t they? You’d never see a werewolf wearing a tuxedo…)
7) Despite the fact that this may instantly make me sound like some Myspace hooker, the truth must be told…I love raw meat. Ask anyone. I can tell you where the best carpaccio or tuna tartare is from Silverlake to Akasaka to Le Marais. (And how do I fly to these places? The red-eye! You see, by night! By night! Only by night!)
Ok, now, this may seem well and good as a vaguely amusing, if not utterly boring, blog on some girl’s page…but the sad and terrible truth is…all of these things, together, stack up to form an inability to do, well, almost anything. Simple things like…have a job. Or even an inability to see things like…the sun.
Two quick follow-up questions:
1) When people say they are going to “the office” are they all going the same office? Or is there more than one? If so, how many are there? Approximately?
2) The sun…there’s only one, right?
To Recap: I have fangs. I can’t sleep. I stab children with my fork. It is obvious that I am a menace and should either be put to eternal sleep or given some sort of “vampire disability”.
Or…OR…if anyone reading this shares my dilemma, maybe we could join forces and start some sort of vampire bicycle gang, write a play, join the circus, become Scientologists, go on a yoga retreat, dabble in haberdashery, try Santacon! … or any other such thing that might somehow alleviate the tremendous burden of inhabiting a body so ill-suited for the purposes of functioning as a normal, warm-blooded member of society.
Get back to me.