You Suck: A Love Story

Christmas presents, because it’s completely shallow and materialistic. So, I was all, “Yeah, well, I’d love to, but I am now one of the chosen, so I have duties.”
    And he was all, “No way, you’re Jewish?”
    And I was all, “No, I am nosferatu.”
    And he was all, “You are not.”
    And I was all, “Remember that sexylicious guy from Walgreens. It was him. Well, actually it’s the Countess who brought me into the sacred circle of sanguinity.”
    And he was all, “You didn’t even call me?”
    “I’m sorry, Jared, but you are of an inferior species now.”
    So he goes, “I know, I totally suck.”
    And I know he’s going to go all tragico-emo on me. So I say, “Buy me a Mochaccino and I’ll reveal to you our dark ways and stuff.”
    We leave a note saying that Jared has impregnated me and we’re running off together to join a satanic cult, so my mother won’t panic when she wakes up, because she’s totalitarian about leaving notes. Then we head to the SOMA. But apparently, the entire fucking country shuts down on Christmas, slammed under the oppressive iron fist of the baby Jesus, so out of nine Starbucks we try, all are closed.
    And Jared is all, “Take me to meet them. I want to be in the dark fold, too.”
    And I was all, “No way, loser, your hair is totally flat.” Which it was. He only had the one spike in front,
    and his sculpting gel had like failed hours ago, so in his PVC raincoat, he kinda looked like a black lacquer coatrack like you see in Chinatown, but that wasn’t why I couldn’t take him to see the Countess and my Dark Lord. I just couldn’t. I knew the Countess would freak out if she saw I was exploiting her exquisite gift to show off for a friend, so I was all, “It’s very secret.” But Jared started to pout and brood at the same time, which he can totally pull off because he practices, so I started to feel like a malodorous soupcon of mashed assholes, as Lautreamont so aptly put it. (Shut up, Lily says it sounds more romantic in French.) So I let him come, but I told him he had to say outside across the street. But when we came around the corner of the Dark Lord’s block, there was a guy in a yellow tracksuit standing in the middle of the street. Just standing there, with his hood up and his head down, looking like he was going to stand there forever. And he turned really slow in our direction.
    Jared was all, “Wanksta rappa,” in my ear, and he giggled that high-pitched little-girl giggle he does sometimes that’s like violence catnip to other guys. (Which is why Jared has to carry a foot-long double-edged dagger in his boot, which he calls his Wolf-fang. Fortunately it doesn’t give him any false confidence and he is still a total puss, but he likes the attention he gets when doormen take it away from him at clubs.) Anyway, I think my vampyre senses were, like, on edge, because I could just tell that this wasn’t your normal hip hop guy standing in the middle of a deserted street in a three-hundred-dollar tracksuit at midnight on Christmas night, so I grabbed Jared’s arm and pulled him back around the corner.
    And I’m all, “Dude. Shields up. Creep. Stealth. Lowest profile.”
    So we peek around the corner, totally cloaked this time, and the tracksuit guy is like over by the door of the loft, and someone is coming out. It’s the crusty old drunk guy with the huge shaved cat, and he has his unit out, like he’s going to take a leak, which I could have gone another sixteen years without seeing.
    And Tracksuit grabs him like he’s a rag doll and pulls his head back by the hair, and bites him on the neck. And when he does, I can see that it’s not a hip hop guy at all, but some crusty white vampyre, his fangs were like visible from space. So the huge cat guy is thrashing and screaming and spraying whiz all over the place and I can hear the huge cat hissing behind the door, and Jared grabs me by my messenger bag and starts pulling me away, down the street. So that’s all I saw.
    And Jared was all, “Whoa.”
    And I was all, “Yeah.”
    And as soon as we got a few blocks away, I pulled out my cell and called the Countess’s cell, but it went right to voice mail. So now we’re at a special midnight showing of The Nightmare Before Christmas at the Metreon, drinking a huge Diet Coke to calm our nerves while we wait for a return call from my vampyre coven. (Jared forgot his inhaler and has been gasping since we saw the attack. It’s so