Thank You, Satan

  I chugged a bunch of blood at the party, then acted like a douche. I don't know my limits. Nobody knows my limits, but they might want to, because I'm hypnotizingly interesting and dark. I've never found another person interesting. It might be the intensity of my hidden emotions that allures people; the depth of my metaphorical torment haunting them from within me like a ghostly demon thing. Maybe it's my eyes that burn them with  fires from the hell that I live everyday in my mind. My poems attract a lot of attention. I write at least three a day,  passionately, and people love to read them. They don't always make sense, and sometimes I use words inappropriately just to make good use of them, and the subject is always tightly based around my crying habits, but they're really good poems, you know? Honestly, I'd prefer to be left alone to write forever, and never show my work. I selflessly socialize because people are more comfortable with thinking of me as a fellow human. 

  Blood tastes bad. Sometimes I rest a few pennies on my tongue as practice. I want to like it, so I don't have to lie if someone asks. It's not the taste though, it's about the feeling of power that comes with it. Normal happy people have no power over me. They're too distracted with living to notice the spookiness of reality. By choosing to not be predators, they agree to be prey. It's not always blood, I can also consume energy. I could psychicly drain you completely dry, without you even noticing. While everyone is laughing and having a good time, I'm feeding and growing more powerful. 

  Blood is a flashier way to go about it. It may seem medically and mentally sick, but it makes a statement. It's like looking a person right in the face, and telling them that there's something wrong with me. I choose to be strong. My weaknesses exist only in nightmares. I want to drink your blood for no reason. 

  It's a very complicated and spiritual lifestyle. It's not easy to function in society wearing black makeup and a cape, but I can't change who I am. When I take the makeup off,  it's then that I'm wearing the real mask. When I take off the cape, I get cold. Nobody understands me. The world is a clam, and I'm a unicorn seahorse. There's no better way to say it. There are no words unique enough to express how different I am. I'm much more special than anyone else. The stress drives me to drinking. 

  Blood, that is. Red gold. Texas chainsaw tea. A bubbling crude. I feel younger just thinking about it. I feel smart when I think. I think about blood all the time, so I don't have to lie if someone asks. Nobody believes me until I'm floating around the party, guessing everybody's weight. That is, if I can tear myself away from posing in a corner, thinking about blood. I want it so bad, I throw up afterwards. 

  My only fear is slayers. Slayers frighten me almost as much as I frighten myself. They stalk me everywhere, and one even moved into the house next door. They all disguise themselves as Polish, and grow stew tomatoes to survive. My every move is monitored and kept in records around the world. They can see and hear everything except for when I'm on the toilet. I try to do things to prove how innocent and hurt I am, but I'm evil.  The only reason I haven't been killed yet is Satan. 

  Thank you, Satan. 

The Big News

  I'm thinking about changing the name of my blog to,"Princess Garbageface Sometimes". The whole "today" thing might seem to imply that I'm capable of writing something blog worthy every day. I'm not. Sure, I could write a couple lines of sweet nothings, but it would be for no reason with no real thought. I also understand that my blog isn't nearly as convenient to read as everything else you've ever read, and whatever mistake occurred to lead you here  isn't likely to repeat if all you find is a brief description of my menstruation or what I did with my hair today. That sells great on facebook, but everyone wants a hug. More importantly, it's rumored that short blogs are frowned upon, and I would be nothing without the smiles of people who as far as I know don't exist. Filling the daily gap with bull would fall far too short of the fine quality expected from my fan. 

  I'm not saying that it would be impossible to write so much so often. If it was my job, I would. This blog is just a new drop in the bucket of all the many things to do that would be just as well not done. On top of all of those things, are things that do matter, that I'm obligated to choose to do.  Above all is maintaining a balance of my choices that pleases me the most at the time. Too much of any one thing is no good. Everything needs rest to stay strong. For example, as my brain begins to exhaust from writing, I begin to spell phonetically. By the time I need a break from one thing, I'm usually ready to pick up on something else that was put on break earlier, so I kind of do what I want when I want, in an always occupied sort of way. 

  For an unemployed housewife with no children, I'm mysteriously busy. I can account for all the things I do, but I could stop everything aside from house cleaning, and appear just as productive. I do waste an unnecessary portion of my effort thinking about my tasks. I squeeze in chunks of laziness everywhere, but acting lazy doesn't always allow me to relax. I'm not at my best balance with that right now. Maybe it's the weather. Everyone wants to make the most of their summer. Maybe it's because I have no job. Maybe it's the voice in my head that knows how unimaginably busier everyone else is that won't shut up long enough to calm down. Maybe it's your fault. Busy, busy, busy.

  Writing is good for me, and I need the practice, and I love the fame. This blog is still experimental, but I'm committed until stated otherwise. If you don't expect too much from me, I won't give you too little. 

V.D.

 Every young woman has daydreamed the fantasy of being more desirable than they are. Sought after uniquely, desperately, superfluously, direly.. Everyone wants to be the most special of what they are, and women are women. An estrogen factory of dreams. We dream of being desired even if we already are. There's always room for supernatural fantasies. 

 Adventure, suspense, terror, struggles, and record breaking flattery. All of the elements of a perfect novel about yourself, that you can transform at any time to suit your needs. Of course, it's best that the story makes sense. The more believable your story about you is, the more you're going to like it, unless you wish you were someone else, which is less common. So, if the reason you're pursued in this story is impossible, you'll probably think of an impossible story of how it became possible, in a world where it can take place. 

 Long ago, in the midsts of outlining new novels of myself, I created my character. I made myself a vampire. At that time in my life, I believed that my fears of the sun in the material word had passed with age. But, this fear was a unique part of my memory, and never completely unharnessed. The transformation from human to creature of the night was simple. All I had to do was toy with the fact that I have EPP( the least aggressive of the vampire diseases ). So I did. 

 Over time, I built a variety of scenarios and details of why and how my symptoms mutate to transform me to choose from. Some very different from others. I could be weak, or strong, or enchanting, or immortal, or dying, or killing. There is no end to the possibilities of fantasy. It's quite good fun.  

 Over more time, in the real world, my symptoms began to return in unexpected ways. There was nothing romantic about that. My struggles were of the most least acknowledgeable variety. This book was a dull read. There was nothing for a third party to take note of, other than disgustingly covered windows and my new outdoor apparel. Sunshine dimmed from my skin, and breezes left from my hair. The exhilarations of life that waited for me outside all day seemed to fall asleep at sunset. 

 The worse I felt about myself, the more easily my inner dialog convinced me that I deserved it. In reality there's nowhere to escape to, and nothing tangible to escape. I wanted to run and scream and kick and panic, and be something much more than a shut in.. 

 On a mountain, in a post apocalyptical land, I'm out of breath and starving, and unstoppable. As an evil scientist hunts me like an animal, I think to myself that it's not his fault. It's my fault. I made myself a vampire. 

Real Eyes

  When my real eyes realized real lies, I pooped my pants."The hell, you say?", I whispered, deep into the screen of my phone. The blood drained from my face as sweat beaded in my eyebrows, and the room began to swirl around me with a blur. A single tear dropped upon my knee before it buckled, and then everything went black... 

  I awoke nestled in the bosom of my Fairy Godmother. "The time has come", she said shakily, lifting me upright on her lap."Now that you know the truth, you know what you must do."

  A thunder rolled through the ground from every direction. My Fairy Godmother trembled, almost losing her teeth, and then vanished, leaving me to plop butt first onto a family of daisies."Save yourself", whistled the smallest, as it ripped in a whip of wind. A requiem hummed from the elder flowers beneath me. I lifted my weight gingerly from the dear crushed creatures. I had every intention to collect them to put in some water later, but they assured me that their home was here, in this enchanted clearing, now, on the day of the prophecy. Their stems weaved together against the earth to spell the words,"They're coming", as the thunder drew too near for their delicate voices. 

  I looked to the sky for the approaching danger, but the coast was clear and starry. Yet, the wind pressed stronger from such a perfect circumference, as did the roar in my ears, I was surely in the center of some doom. 

  There was a flash of pink in a swatch of moonlight between trees that stood far in the distance. And then blue. And then there were patches of every color pouring in from every distance. Whatever they were.. they were coming. 

  Towards me, they rushed. Colors from the darkness, into the clearing to reveal their forms before they attacked. I began to see that the colors were carried by legs, with shoes. There were wrist watches and glasses, and pocket protectors, and pocket protector protectors. There were buttons all buttoned on bright buttoned shirts charging like a furious rainbow.. They were geniuses. 

  A stampede of geniuses. Their feet stumbled and kicked up grass as they squealed their opinions in a panic."To my knowledge..", chanted from my left."Theoretically..", echoed from my right. Ahead of me, they pushed and trampled and fought one another over who should decide what to say. Behind me, I think they spoke chinese. I had nowhere to go, and nothing to do but fear the collision closing in on me. 

  When the moment came to crash, they suddenly stopped. On the daisies, and only inches away all around me. My personal space instantly became a tomb of panting breath with the stench of gummy bears and graham crackers. 

  The rosiest one bent forward to meet me at eye level, and spat,"Tell us what you know", between gasps."It's theoretical", hissed over my shoulder, from another."Tell us!", repeated the first genius with no patience, causing an uproar among the thousands in the compacting crowd."Kill her!", some shrieked above the others as I stood dumbfounded, mute and defenseless. 

  The rosy cheeked leader shook me, demanding answers."They want you dead, do you understand me?", he gestured at his comrades,"They can't let you leave here knowing what you know." The feel of his touch brought a sickness, and I was captured in his sniveling stare. A desperate rage sank into my stomach, putting everything into perspective. 

  My Fairy Godmother was right. I knew what I must do. Before, it would have been wrong. It would have been out of the question before, but now I knew the truth. The truth, I remembered, getting as dizzy as when I first heard. 

  I pulled myself together just in time, while I still had my life. I tightened my jaw, and closed my fists, and met the genius's stare with a smile."Tell me", he smiled back, relaxing himself to listen. I didn't like what was going to happen next, but if I didn't act now, I would die.

  I punched him in the face. 

  Cries of terror and disbelief  thundered in a wave of retreat. This stampede now wise to a fear beyond any nightmare their enchanted world had imagined. 

  The wind blew away and went calm. Bunnies and fawns and bluebirds in song, came free from secret safe places. Fairy Godmother materialized with a shimmer, kneeling over the dead daisies. She nudged them all with her wand, and with a "poof", they looked as good as new (later she would tell me they were never quite the same again). What she said before sending me home was,"Your work here is done, but what you saw today is only a fraction of what challenges now lay ahead. You must never share what you've learned, or this world and yours will crumble. You are the chosen one. You're like the smartest person ever. I sent you a friend request." We said our goodbyes, and everything went black again. 

  This time, I came to in the shallow end of a public pool, wearing six pairs of wings and a ball gown. I hurried to my apartment to find my phone on the floor, with the same caption still glowing, waiting to haunt me anew. I exited the screen, and deleted my history. The future of everything was in my hands. My importance was almost too painful to comprehend, but I had a strength now, a power, and a new sense of well deserved confidence. I was the chosen one. 

  This world may never have real enough eyes to realize the lies that I had to face that day, but when it does.. I'll be ready. 

Will Work For Lemons

  At first, everything was stupid. Everything was supposed to be totally cool, but it wasn't. Nothing was like I imagined, like it was on TV. Nearly my every curiosity proved more disappointment. Nothing exhilarated my spirits in the way that I was shown it should. Experiences didn't live up to the examples. Products never lived up to the commercials. 

  After I learned the basics, like reading, writing, and arithmetic, I realized that everything was crap. Spontaneously gathering around the piano as a family after a Christmas miracle, turns out to be the most unusual phenomenon. There's always more lemon than all of the other flavors in the package. Why? The consumer doesn't want mostly lemon, and the manufacturer knows it. If you want cherry and grape, you have to also pay for the lemon.  The ice cream shop has chocolate ice cream, but your chocolate milkshake is made with vanilla and just enough chocolate syrup to make it slightly brown, but not enough to make it taste like chocolate. Is the chocolate ice cream so much more expensive than the vanilla that they can't afford to actually sell it to you? Is there a chocolate syrup shortage? No! Then why? Because everything must be crap. 

  Crap eventually got lame. I was at the age when everyone thought they were the shit. Everything was intense, and extreme, and lines were crossed, but it was all the same. The products and experiences were new, but the results were identical. They were lame and discontenting. 

  It was lame for so long, it became retarded. I kept asking myself why. I could understand the greed of the industries misleading my expectations of their goods. What I couldn't comprehend was why I should be influenced to desire drama. Why don't I instinctively scream when I lay eyes on a creature that might bite me? Why have I never screamed from running into my girlfriends at the mall? I scream when I'm startled, but when stuff doesn't sneak up behind me, I deal with it at a comfortable volume. Why don't I regularly cry tears of joy? Why don't each of my problems require a half hour of the world's attention? Why are all exciting activities only thirty seconds long, but you have to wait all day to participate? To drive me to vicariously feel through entertainment interrupted by words from sponsors who leave me no choice but to buy lemons? 

  Yes. Of course. It all circles back to industrial greed. I've been thoughtfully designed as part of an elaborate plan to make the rich richer. My place in society is to empty my pockets. Life is drug that I can't afford. I can't stop thinking about how I'll get my next fix, and every fix only gets me high enough to make me need more. I need and need and continue to need, so some jerks in giant houses can continue to go without want. I have a disgusting habit and it's called being normal. 

  I guess I'll smoke a few sitcoms to take off the edge until I find something pretty to shoot into my veins when I cash in this $1 winning lottery ticket that I scratched while I reported a stray dog to the Stray Dog Killing League(SDKL), because I'm a contributing member. 

..And that, my friend, is gay. 

At Sea (scene 6 of 6)

Dream and dream, there's much more potion

For your drinking, from this ocean

Where were those places that you wanted to be

Where you thought you caught sleep

And where are they now? 

How it stings, this salty liquor

From swollen fingers, to sickened liver

How will you know when your desire's fulfilled? 

You'll be laying still 

With birds on your brow

Look around, you'll see them circling

The flocks are crowding, sweetly chirping

Do you believe in magic forever spread?

You're no more than bread

Dry and beguiled 

Let's see that smile

Your lips are dripping

There's sea for miles 

This ship's for sipping

Just take a load off as the thirst lifts away

Where the birds are bating 

This serene sedation

It's your dream vacation..

At Sea (scene 5 of 6)

Resting on leaf beds

I request to shred like relish 

Do the bellies of the beasts no longer growl?

Flame spitting hounds

Have you left me for your hell pit?

Leave me jealous in the snow now falling down

Frost bitten nose

My proposals unaccepted

And my clothes have all been left, and that is fine

That shine in the distance

Is a lake from long passed visions

Now it's solid, it is better for a bed

"This way", says silence

"Here's the tyrant which you quest for

Have a try out on the slickness of this floor

Slip in an instant

But of course, you're poor supported

Enter eden, it stops your heart with cold

Swim under shelter

And give in to the pleasure

Of ice ever lightly as you float"

I dream as I'm leaning

Into sheets of love above me

And fill my lungs to ask what I'll become