Hi. What do you want.
Dear Diary,
I shall continue where I left off. I had the most unpleasant sleep on the cold concrete floor... Never again. Truly, I mean that.
However, my regrets didn’t end there. As I was able to get up, I saw Obsidian or whatever their name was at their computer (I think I even vaguely recognized the VampyreBytez forum...). Deciding the best way to state my presence was to talk, I asked what time it was.
“It’s 7PM can’t you tell the fucking time?” They said to me. I don’t know why they were so pissed off– actually, I should’ve been the one to be responding like that given the circumstance.
Fuck them, I want to leave. That’s all I could think of at that time. Simple-minded, but it was the only thing I could manage after sleeping in such awful conditions.
I asked them where the stairs were and they got pissy at me again. They didn’t even care to turn around to look at me. I guess it’s my fault for getting into this situation in the first place, isn’t it...? That’s all I could think of on the way back home. God, how I had fallen so quickly by gallivanting with this neon asshole.
Honestly, I don’t know if I’m more pissed off at myself or them. They were an asshole and I never wanted to see them again. If I see their stupid vomit-inducing green hair again, I’ll walk the other way. However, I do acknowledge my part in this situation, allowing myself to be taken by their... Well, I wouldn’t call it charm. “Intrigue” is a more fitting word.
Getting home, all I could do was think about “N” again. I looked over our messages. Last one I got from him was over a month ago, when he sent me a picture of some rail station he snuck onto by Lake Michigan. What would he do in this situation? Not go home with a prick, first of all.
I thought about telling him. Yeah, right, tell him what? “Hey, I slept with this person and they sucked. All I could do is think about you. Do you want to get back together?”
God, what’s “P” up to now? I checked our group chat. She said she was moving to the city, but I’ve been too embarrassed to face her. Last time she saw me, I wasn’t a blood-sucker. Granted, she used to write Twilight fanfiction, but... The real thing? I don’t know how’d she feel.
Self-inflicted purgatory filled with suffering. Maybe it’s some like past-life karma or something. My parents would say something like that... Maybe not directly to me, but to someone else.
Hell, I’d contemplate going back to the commune with my them to find myself if I wasn’t a fucking creature of the undead. Plus, I love clubbing too much to sit around listening to folk music... Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!
Why are you sending this here instead of Google. Are you stupid. You obviously can make it to this random blog.
No.
Dear Diary,
It’s such a trite thing to write in a diary. Who reads these? Snoops? Disgruntled relatives once you pass? Perhaps the cleanup crew who finds you... An internet diary, an open invite to the perverted to snoop through my thoughts and feelings...
Alas, here I find myself writing. Coming to the city has been a whole ordeal in it of itself, but that’s all for another time. All that matters is finally I got off work at a good time to go clubbing. What’s my job? Well, I got hired at a haunted house. I guess people in big cities are more open to... ‘Alternative’ means of fun. In this case: feeling it’s okay to sign a waiver to have some random person “pretend” to be a vampire and drink their blood.
Does it really matter if it’s pretend if it’s the same outcome? My co-workers are unaware of this fact. However, if I still walked among the living, it’d be much more disgusting to taste blood, wouldn’t it? No wonder this position was vacated.
Anyway, back to tonight. Perhaps I was desperate. I guess I needed to get something out of my system since the breakup (Again, for another time...). At the club, I met someone. They weren’t like “N”. No, in fact, they kind of pissed me off. God, typing this out reeks of desperation.
About my height, green hair that was chopped as messily as a child moving a lawn, extensions that lit up obnoxiously, more piercings than I’d ever seen someone cram onto their face. No, that’s all fine. I think the difference between this cyber goth and “N” might’ve been attractive even. However, they were the one who approached me and in a shrill voice screamed over the music, “Who the fuck are you!!”
Annoying. And yet, without thinking, all I could say back (like a cheap pickup line) was, “Who’s asking?”
They told me their name; It was some long mishmash, obviously not their real name... But who am I to judge on that? My first name is not my legal name (yet), and everyone assumes my last is an attempt to seem cool. Obsidian Spider of the Darkness or something like that. They proceeded to probe me, asking for my favorite Bauhaus songs– Passion of Lovers, for those snooping, or perhaps for a future me that feels differently. However, I like a lot of their songs, so I kept naming some.
Somehow, this conversation spiraled. We danced for a bit, and we ended up walking home together. Well, specifically, to their house. I had never gone home with someone with /that/ intent that wasn’t “N”. Maybe I should look into mood stabilizers for the lapse in judgement (requires a therapist though... Right?). However, due to my current “living situation” (I’ll explain later), I was fine with this arrangement.
... That was, until we went to their “house”. To call it a house is to give credence to their dwelling. We had to sneak around the exterior of some apartment complex– the first red flag. They yelled at some passerbys as we eventually got to the interior – red flag two. They then proceeded to bring me into some storage room. They then moved a dusty box to reveal a hatch with stairs to a cellar – red flag three. We then proceeded down these stairs, descending into darkness. They bumbled around in the room, not caring to help me navigate, looking for the lightswitch.
Now, dear reader, whoever happens upon this: Would you do this? No. Like fuck you would.
We somehow made it into what they called their “house”-- a hidden room in this cellar. It was pretty barebones... Well, if you just take into account their computer desk, coffin and strewn about clothes. I think the majority of the filled space were pictures of Morrisey taped around the walls, almost like an obsessed killer (Not that I am one to talk with band posters, but the sheer amount dedicated to Morrisey was a bit nauseating.)
Another lapse in judgement: I didn’t get the chance to ask what the fuck any of this was. Instead, we just started making out in the glow of their computer’s lights (Why they didn’t turn it off when they went out was a mystery). We fell into their coffin and well... Perhaps what happened next is too much to even write down. However, I will say, they refused to fall asleep without their platforms on. I, of course, could not get comfortable like that, especially in such a closed space. How did they react? By kicking me out of their coffin and forcing me to lay on the cold floor. When I tried to gather their clothes to make a nest, they yelled at me “ruining the order of their room” and asked if I was, quote, “a fucking prep”. I was too tired to fight and too tired to stumble around and find my way out.
If I get killed, this is a pathetic way to end my immortal life.