And yet he didn’t seem weird-weird. Sure, he had bizarre skin and other peculiar traits. But, in all honesty, I really couldn’t picture him doing any of that Goth stuff. So why the lies? Occam’s razor dictated that the most obvious answer was usually the right one . . .
. . . so he must actually be insane. Most obvious answer, right?
Truthfully, I was the insane one. I declined all substitute calls today. That wasn’t insane . . . the fact that I stayed home for the day to cry my eyes out and read the rest of his journals . . . that was the crazy part.
I sat on my bed, fully flannelled, with a bowl of Häagen-Dazs Dulce de Leche in one hand and a leather-bound journal of an insane “vampire” in the other. I mean, I knew that sexy manpires were all the rage these days, but seriously, to actually try to get me to believe that he is one? Deranged. And yet I still held this journal in front of me.
What the hell was wrong with me? I told myself years ago I’d never let another guy dupe me. I’d never be lied to again.
But was fiction actually lying?
September 22, 2010
Dear Journal,
I think I need to be alone for a while. I am tired of my family and friends trying to set me up.
“William,” my niece says nearly monthly now, “you need a woman.”
What I need, Bree, is a good spanking and I can’t find anyone to give it to me.
Their latest attempt at matchmaking failed miserably. Steve called down his friends from Philly with the intent that I pair off with one of them—Sarah or Melissa. Both sisters were vapid and utterly soulless, even for our kind. Their temperaments were pleasant enough, but they both exhibited personalities that simply were not strong enough for me.
I’m beginning to worry that my friends just want to be rid of me. Their constant efforts and attempts to cheer me up have taken a new turn after my rejection of both women. Now Steve wants me to maybe get younger and go back to school, so I may pour my attention into my work. Find something to live for.
As if I live at all.
I’m tired of changing my age just to find people that are suitable for me. I’ve vacillated between my thirties and teens so many times I can’t count. A vampire’s body can change its age in seconds—it’s part of our ability to adapt as predators. Sometimes the little old man on the bench is a greater threat than the hulking thug on the corner. This talent ought to make life’s journey more fresh, but instead it is always a disappointment. Each time I grow young, I think more opportunities will open themselves to me, but instead it’s just the same trite experiences with different background music and technology. Plus, I’m enjoying my job, and I don’t want to leave the administration to someone else. My life is good right now, just not the loneliness.
So I paint, I sculpt, I dally in museums, and waste my time in a million ways.
Frustrated and tortured . . . as usual,
William
Okay, I thought to myself as I closed the book, definitely insane.
I mean, if the whole purpose of writing these journals was to set a scene where he seduces me, why include all this unnecessary (albeit fascinating) information? Did he think it would turn me on to hear about his nephew-in-law’s aspirations for him? So strange.
Then, I thought about it more. All of these entries were so consistent. They all exhibited the same personality—the desperate yearning of a lonely soul. Maybe he didn’t work because he was a writer. Maybe he was a really fucking good writer who made enough from his first book to be able to afford not to work and to spend all his money on buying me pianos and gowns.