It’s Vampire Season, folks. Finally. Well, it’s ALWAYS Vampire Season if you’re me, but at this time of year, the rest of the world seems to not only tolerate my bizarre fixation, but to share it. This is fantastic news, because honestly? It’s exhausting trying to nourish a non-seasonal craving – ever tried to find a candy cane in July, when its minty-freshness would make a most refreshing treat? Exactly. This shit just doesn’t make sense. It would obviously be much easier to
seduce terminate a sexy-as-hell psychotic immortal murderer using my luscious carotid cleavage as bait during the warmer months, but this is not the hand I’ve been dealt. I have a friend with the titanium nutsack to rock a full-on cape year-round, for virtually any reason at all, and without the slightest concern for societal or seasonal raised eyebrows. He’s all, “Yes, I am wearing a cape. And?” I envy his bravado. And his collection of fine opera-wear.
This is the time of year when I can voice some of my pressing concerns about the undead without people thinking I’m any weirder than they usually think I am. Which is pretty fucking weird, but that’s beside the point. The media have, frankly, confounded me to the point where I don’t even really KNOW the proper way to dispatch a vampire anymore. There are too many choices, too many discrepancies, too many liberties being taken in the modern lore. It’s irresponsible, honestly. I mean, isn’t this *kind of* a matter of life and death? I would simply like a straight answer on a few things. Used to be, a wooden stake through the heart – and ONLY a wooden stake through the heart – would do the trick. And while this method of termination is still considered a fail-safe classic, it seems it’s not our only choice anymore. And let’s face it, who really ever HAS a pointy wooden stake on hand unless you live in Sunnydale or Transylvania or Mystic Falls? Nobody, that’s who.
Speaking of Mystic Falls, let’s check in with the sexy Salvatore Brothers for a moment. Damon is snarky, hilarious, uber-hot and makes the hands-down best Crazy Eyes I have ever seen, ever. Brother Stephan is broody, dark, romantic and deep, which totally doesn’t matter because all you can do is stare at his
ass abs. Stephan’s insider-vamp-nickname is The Ripper, due to his savage feeding style and fondness for leaving brutal carnage behind after a kill. And you’re all “Yeah, I’m totally OK with that? As long as he takes his shirt off at some point.” These teen vamps drink a lot of alcohol (in addition to blood) – from very fancy crystal decanters. I like to think it’s bourbon, because that’s totally what I would drink if I were a sexy, misunderstood vampire just trying to fit in. They also eat. Like, food. This is in direct violation of every rule we’ve ever been taught about the undead. EVERYONE KNOWS VAMPIRES DO NOT EAT. GOD!
This is where I get pissy. Because you can also kill these fuckers with wooden bullets and some botanical concoction called vervain. Is vervain even a thing (My spellcheck suggests not.)? And if it is, may I please have some so that I can
tranquilize and have my way with kill some goddamn vampires? And the sunlight thing just enrages me. The ever-growing vampire population of Mystic Falls can freely walk in daylight as long as they are wearing a magic ring made for them by the town witch. (Yep. Mystic Falls has witches. Werewolves too. I know, it’s pretty much the fucking awesomest place ever.) Sans ring, things get ugly and the usual sizzling flesh and festering face-melt ensues. The Twilight crew, as we all know, sparkles when direct sunlight is applied. Sparkles. I…can’t…let’s just move on. John Mitchell, the second-hottest-vampire-ever and his nasty undead colleagues on Being Human (UK version, obvsies) don’t seem to even address the sunlight issue at all, which is really inconsiderate, honestly. Because there might be *someone* out there who is earnestly trying to understand, and who feels confused by this glaring omission and cannot really even concentrate on the awesome vampires because they should NOT BE WALKING AROUND OUTSIDE.
Anyway, I’m totally just pretending to want to know how to kill vampires because that’s what a normal person should do when faced with a ravenous immortal lunatic who is trying to exsanguinate her. But clearly, I am not the only sicko out there. Women go bananas for this shit. The Cullen Crew of Forks, WA has probably saved more marriages than Oprah just by virtue of their utter bang-ability (sorry, fellas – unless you ARE one of the Cullen Crew of Forks, WA, your wife is probably not thinking about you when you’re having sex. Just FYI.). Edward, is of course, everyone’s undead It Boy, but the moment in Part 2 when he removes his shirt and exposes what can only *politely* be called a “Nipular Incongruity,” I’ve devoted my life to trying to unsee that. It’s not going well. Angel? Total babe. Michael from Lost Boys is so sexy that his 80s ‘do actually still looks good on him. Vampire Brad Pitt is just Brad Pitt with like, exponentially cracked-out hotness. Vampire Tom Cruise is….a pale, frilly fancy-man who…yeah. Never mind. Still better than regular Tom Cruise, I suppose. Finally, with no offense to all of the undead eye-candy aforementioned, ALL other vampires are merely immortal buffoons next to the inimitable Gary Oldman, who will always be my top pick for escort to the Prom of Eternal Damnation. His portrayal of the Count is flawless, heartbreaking, super-sexy and terrifying all at once – and does not leave me wondering how I would kill him, at ALL, because I am totally trying to figure out a way to get him to kill ME so I can be his Dark Lady Succubus forever. And ever. And ever. Don’t lie. You do it too.
I could go on, but I shan’t. There is, I believe, only one fitting way to end this post – and that’s with the wise, immortal words of Sam Emerson: “You’re a vampire, Michael. My own brother, a goddamn shit suckin’ vampire. You wait ’till Mom finds out, buddy.” Because she’ll totally want to sleep with you.
My fear of vomit is so well-documented that there is barely need to mention it. However, for those who are not yet aware: I don’t *do* vomit. I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to hear about it, I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to know about it. I certainly don’t want to smell it. I promise you, I will run screaming, even if the vomit only appears on a TV or movie screen. I will not hold your hair back while you do it. I will not clean it up. I will not even talk to you on the phone if you have a vomit-bug, because I will obviously catch it. It is, I am certain, my maniacal aversion to upchuck that has prevented me from becoming a dreadful, slobbering drunk or peyote-smoking berserker – such revelry results all-too often in the blowing of chunks. I have barfed exactly twice since the age of ten – both times from tunafish – and have no plans to do it again, ever. I think we’re done here.
2. Self-Checkout Lanes
Who *isn’t* afraid of these atrocious grocery Dementors? They lure you in with the promise of a quick, line-free escape and total freedom to purchase your embarrassing personal products in perfect anonymity – away from the prying eyes of unctuous checkout harpies (who totally think you’re a slut) and pimply teen clerks (who totally HOPE you’re a slut) – just to hurl you headlong under the Shame Train that only rattles by when the goddamn laser-thingy fails to scan your Yeast-B-Gone, requiring clamorous assistance from the very-same pimply teens and unctuous harpies you wanted so to avoid. You win, fuckers.
It’s the terrible little teeth and ruthless pinching places. Opening is fine – pleasant, even. Makes you feel like you’ve accomplished something. Click! But closing? It’s a goddamn deathtrap. Hence my lusty embrace of foul-weather – hair, suede and sequins be damned. I’d rather be sodden and woebegone than dry and bleeding out.*
*Please see All You Can Eat Crab Legs Buffet for obvious exception. If you aren’t bleeding, you’re doing it wrong.
4. Squiggly Text Tests
You know, those twisty, illegible letters on the computer that you are supposed to somehow decipher and re-type into a tiny box to prove…what? That you are a wizard with magical eyesight, obviously. Debilitating typing terror? Check. Inevitable failure to reproduce said nonsense letters? Check. Self-loathing tailspin? Check. Enjoy your revenge, you geek bastards.
5. Pull-down Ladders
High atop my list of Personal Horrors and/or Universal Abominations sit these Agents of Certain and Excruciating Demise. Rigged precisely to PLUMMET VIOLENTLY DOWN FROM DIRECTLY ABOVE YOUR HEAD, there is simply no escaping decapitation if you choose to take this death-bait. And if by some miracle you survive the pulling-down portion of the horror-show, just try pushing it up again. Let’s just say the Reaper doesn’t miss twice. If you’re OK with that, knock yourself out. Me? I’m just gonna clear some space in the garage.
6. Steely Dan
I have no explanation. All I have is this creeping dread in my soul every time I hear the awful strains of Doom’s Own Minstrels drifting though the ether. “Hey Nineteen,” in particular, inspires in me a terror akin to bobbing alone in shark infested seas with a bloody stump where my foot used to be. A million miles from shore, in the black of night, and no one’s coming for me. Actually, now that I spell it out? That sounds like a much better way to go than dying of Steely Dan.
Not the place – before you get all indignant and “New Mexicans are people, too!” on me. Trying to spell it is what scares me. My fear mounts exponentially with every failed attempt to write it properly, and inevitably I just end up putting something like “Abba-Kacky!” so it appears as though I am kicky and convivial. I am neither. I just hate that shit-sucking word – with the fire of a thousand suns, I hate it. “Eighth” is no picnic either, if I’m being honest.
8. Remote Controls*
Since when does everyone have, like, 7 remotes for one goddamned screen? And how does ANYONE figure out which goes to what gadget, and what combination of buttons and handhelds will magically find me my Vampire Diaries? And what about when you totally cock it up and everything goes black or staticky and you have no idea what you did so you have no idea how to undo it and the noise from the static is making you feel like you need to hide, or kill someone, and all you can do is cry because at this point you don’t even know how to turn it off? Then what? Huh?!
*This particular terror pretty much applies to all technology. And anything with wires. Or buttons. And what the fuck is a USB cord? Actually, don’t tell me. Whatever it is, I’m certain that I’m not prepared to handle it.
9. Skin Suits and the People Who Make Them
So yeah. When I hear the incessant, rhythmic squeaking of the swings from the playground next door I do not assume that neighborhood children are out for a joyful morning romp. I naturally ascertain that I have awakened to the Zombie End Times, and my entire town has been made into a giant flesh tuxedo by axe-wielding survivalists and that perhaps my supple hide is simply being saved for a jazzy ascot. Is that weird?
10. Too-Long Naps
Taking a nap is scary enough, obviously – I’m not doing work! I’m a ne’er-do-well! Why am I so tired? Am I dying? Ohmigod, I’m totally dying – but when it lasts longer than intended, it’s downright terrifying. Especially if you wake up and it’s DARK. Holy crap? It’s nighttime – did I sleep through my whole life? Did I just Rip Van Winkle that shit? Did I miss DINNER? Do I have to go to bed again soon? What day is it? Fuck, I am in SOOOOO much trouble. PLEASE DO NOT TELL MY MOTHER.
Please, friends, feel free to share your deepest fears with me below – it will totally make me feel superior and, I’m guessing? Relatively sane in comparison. Hit it, bitches!