When I was young, full of hormones and Anne Rice novels, I wanted to be a vampire, because living forever would be GREAT. I would get multiple opportunities to make out with David Bowie, for one. I had watched the Hunger so many times that I wore out the rental tape from the Blockbuster in Plano, Texas. (As you know, all the most sinister people rent from Blockbuster).
If I were a wampyr, I would feel powerful and important and I would save a lot of money on food, and I would outlive all of my enemies- except for the very small percentage of them that also became vampires. When life feels like it’s full of infinite possibilities and people and combinations, this is an attractive concept. There will never be enough time to read all you want to read and see all you want to see.
Twenty years later, you couldn’t pay me to be a dirty stinking vampire! If I’m this sick of humanity and media right now, how bad would it be at 500? There’s only fifteen different kinds of people in the world, and I’m sick to death of fourteen of them- Also, if I lived forever, how many Spiderman remakes would I have to endure? Who am I going to talk to? Already, my interests and music references are met with blank looks of incomprehension by young people in bars. What about the little girl vampire in Let The Right One In? Two hundred years old, and all she gives a shit about is sucking blood and working a Rubik’s cube! Who’s gonna talk to me about Robyn Hitchcock and Twin Peaks and Heathers in a hundred years? Huh? Answer me, goddammit!
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