A Vampire Diary

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I’m 43 years old.  And don’t you f*cking dare say “you’re 43 years young”.  You haven’t seen me naked.  And you don’t have access to my medical records.  And stop with that “you’re only as old as you feel” bullsh*t.  I might wanna feel 30 but no one else seems to feel that way about me.  But  I’m getting more and more ok with the slow burn of my cellular degradation.
I’m middle aged now.  Well in reality I’m probably more like “5/6” aged since I have beaten my body into submission and I think it has started to give up.  I could probably keel over leaning over a buffet while reaching for another spare rib.  But I’m philosophical about it: I’ve had a good run.
But I’m trying, Ringo.  I’m trying to embrace my age.  I’ve recently given up even tying to dress fashionably (hell, I’m sure some of my friends would say I never took it up) well lately.  I won’t get into this now but I had a sorta mental nuclear winter and all the billions of fucks that used to enjoy free reign over the landscape of my mind have been hunted down to a fraction of their once great empire.  I’m got trying to front: some of their great warriors survived the apocalypse and still take swings at my soul whenever they can.  But for the first time, I’m swinging back.
So back to my semblance of a point : I’m feeling my age but I have a lot of younger friends.  I’m talking like between 26-35.  There’s an ocean between 30 and 40 and it is full of terrors.  I hang out with them mostly because I am trying to siphon off their youth and coolness like a time vampire.
I like the young folks
(and I gotta stop for a hot second and mention that I love my fellow elderly.  There’s really nothing that I’ve ever felt that compares to hanging out with an old friend who just happens to around the same old as me.  We get each other’s references.  We have the same prescriptions.  We go to bed early now.  We have financial planners.  We have already cut through the bullshit and gotten down to the really, really good shit.  We bond over the generation following us because they have the one thing that matters: more time.  And they have the temerity to use it as they see fit.)
But back to young folks.  I like them because they still leave the house after dark.
Because I like to drink alcohol around people. And they, for some unknown reason, like to drink it around me.  Because life hasn’t ground them down to little nubs yet.  The boon of ignorance is that they still have unrealistic expectations.  They still have unfettered hope.
Believe it or not, for most of my life , I have not been optimistic .  That sensation has touched down and begun to swim through my synapses.  It’s a very strange feeling. I think I like it.  I think I’m afraid of it.  But I definitely don’t want it to go anywhere and I’m scared a little bit every day that it will.   But I’m trying my best, Ringo.
But my parasitic plan is not working.  Every year I know I’m getting less cool by the minute and it’s not like I had that much of a reservoir to begin with.  And along with the uncoolness taking more and more of my psychic territory every day, my leeching efforts have not improved my physical  vitality either.  I’m a ramora and I can barely hang on to the shark anymore.  They swim too fast.  These mother*ckers drink a lot of beer and inhale fried foods and I’m powerless to resist them! Do you know how many calories are in a Jumbo Slice at 2:30 AM?   If I go out with These motherf*ckers on a Friday night, they bounce out of bed Saturday morning at 8 AM as if they didn’t just pour enough poison down their throat to clean a car battery and wolfed down things that can only be defined as food in the most liberal of classifications.  I bounce out of the bed at 8 AM, too.  On Sunday.
Why did I even think emulating blood suckers would even work.  They’re not cool at all.  If you took a look at the vampires of silver and small screen, you’d see it’s a murderers’ row of uncool.  Don’t believe me?  Well I’ll break it down (and I’m going to challenge my own geek Cred by promising not to turn to google for help).
To wit:
Nosferatu: creepy as hell.Yes. But he dresses like a beatnik.
Tom Cruise’s Lestat: it’s supposed to be the 90’s and he’s dressing like a pirate.  Only Johnny Depp can pull that off, brah.
The Lost Boys: cool at the time? Sure.  Jam shorts were also cool in the 80’s.
Gary Oldman’s Dracula: dressed like Liberace would if he joined the priesthood.
Pattinson’s Twilight Vampire: I don’t know and don’t want to know his name. Whatever that franchise is trying to portray as a vampire is an affront to everything cool about vampires.  It’s as if you squeezed all the emo out of Weezer (but let them keep their talent) and mixed it with incredible whining and made it flesh.
Blade: I’m a hater.  To me he looks like he could fit in at a gun show or militia camping retreat and his haircut is basically a short Kid ‘n Play fade.
30 Days of Night: haven’t seen these ones but I like the premise so I’ll put them in the cool column.
The Original Dracula: the archetype we all know – slicked back hair, pale skin, Tux and tails, cheesy cape, shiny shoes, lame medallion.  So basically a 1960’s Las Vegas lounge singer.
This is the species I based my plan to recapture my youth and augment my life support level of cool?
No wonder it didn’t work.
Werewolves are kinda cool, right?  I think I could learn to sniff butts.

 

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