A Vampire in Vegas: Part II
A Midnight Mid-death Menopausal Crisis
I’m a tad bit more than mildly claustrophobic. As my new unreality began to sink in one of the first things that had me grabbing for Greg’s (yummy) neck was the unthinkable prospect of having to sleep all day, every day, in a boxlike constrictive coffin for mucho millenniums. Like, totally forever. Talk about damnation! Talk about hell on earth! NO WAY! HUH UH. NOT GONNA HAPPEN!
The poor metrosexual bloodsucker certainly had his hands full with me those first few hours. Even after Greg assured me sleeping in coffins was truly another misbegotten vampire myth (I could sleep anywhere I wanted as long as I was secure and had blackout drapes or the equivalent thereof), he still had to endure a series of serious meltdowns on my part.
What Greg had failed to take into consideration is that he had created a menopausal vampire. Talk about the making of a MONSTER! Being somewhat still cursed with silly sentimental human values I decided to go ahead and give the poor sucker (groan) a little credit. Modestly speaking, I guess in the subdued lighting of the lounge I actually did look ten years younger. Greg swears he had no idea when he selected me that he was condemning me to a very, very, very long death indeed of hot flashes and mood swings.
Nor was there any way Greg could have been privy to the fact that I had scrimped and saved and finally scheduled a series of enhancement surgeries: eyelid lift, a mini-face lift, and some serious Botox. All those plans are shelved now, unless I can find a vampire plastic surgeon who is willing to operate on me on a daily, no—make that a nightly— basis.
As if being cursed with eternal menopause isn’t bad enough, there are a few other inherit traits of mine that my menopausal-monster-maker hadn’t bothered to investigate. I have food allergies. Yep. Particularly to peanuts or any peanut related products. A severe peanut allergy, I might add. My throat closes and I damn near suffocate to death (whatever). Greg has repeatedly assured me that epinephrine should work just fine even in my transmogrified system.
I, however, being of a more cautious nature and with no desire to suffer through the terrifying act of choking to death even if it won’t kill me, have scripted a small speech to present to my potential meals-on-heels: “Have you recently, say in the past twelve hours or so, eaten any peanuts, peanut products, or items that were manufactured in the same facility as peanuts?”
I’m still practicing my delivery: nightly. Hey, I’ve only been a murderous stalker and drainer of blood for over a week now. What does amaze me, though, is how truly gullible humans are. Everyone I’ve approached has unhesitatingly given me the nutritional info I need. Non-suckers!
My perpetual liquid diet isn’t damn near killing me to state the obvious. But, it is boring. Anne Rice’s vampires got a vicarious thrill from each victim’s blood: Tastes of the person’s life experiences coursed in a torrent of hot rushes throughout their dead cold veins as they drew the very essences of being out of hapless souls.
I must be picking the wrong persons. They all taste the same. They seem to share an equal abundance of sins, vices, and lack of virtues. Maybe it’s the city I’m in? Could it be a syndrome? “What happens in Vegas is simply the same old, same old?”
I’m actually having second thoughts about relocating. After all, Las Vegas is a 24-hour city filled with throngs of tourists in the summer that can easily go missing. Alaska would be good for the winter months with its 24/7 midnight. Forgeddabout Seattle. Too damp. I don’t want to mold during the day and the moisture would be hell on my now eternally frizzy hair.
The other thing I’m having second thoughts about is being stuck in my mid-forties for like EV-er. At least in real life I could have looked forward to eventually getting over hot flashes and mood swings with a little help from my gynecologist. And with a little help from my cosmetic surgeon I could have dropped ten grand and ten years without batting (yah, yah) an eye.
I’m seriously on a mission to find a plastic surgeon and make him mine, all mine. I know that during my sleep I’ll revert to how I was when Greg-the-batman bit me. But, I really need a magic man for those special occasions like the upcoming Thanksgiving Hunt n’ Harvest A Feast Gala, and especially the New Year’s Midnight ‘til Dawn Smorgasbord. The one that features warm and cold buffets.
I’m not exactly sure what “cold” buffets entail. Greg’s not talking. He wants to surprise me…
A Vampire in Vegas: Part III
“It’s Lonely Out There”
Since my original self died and I became a new and revised entity on October 1, does that mean I am no longer an impulsive, optimistic, happy-go-lucky Aries? Am I now becoming more of a moderate, well-balanced and inanimate Libra?
This could actually work to my advantage. I read on AOL Horoscope that Libra and Aries are opposite each other in the Zodiac. Not only do opposites attract, they complement each other like two sides of the same coin. I could really learn to love myself! I can already feel a huge ego evolving. I’d better make finding my plastic surgeon a major priority…