Vampires. Everywhere. All bloodsuckers, all the time.

You might remember from previous Rib posts that I am writing a vampire story. I started it prior to the current mania that has everyone panting like Renfield.  All of a sudden there are vampire books, movies, t.v. shows out the ying yang, none of which I read or watch and yet cannot escape thanks to modern advertising. Consequently, I am getting a little tired of vampires.

Yes, Rib readers, I AM GETTING SICK OF MY OWN STORY. This is a crime against nature. It is not supposed to happen until one’s editor demands the 37th rewrite.

It doesn’t help that now when people find out what I’m writing, they immediately think Eddie-Bella-Sookie-Buffy-Anita-Lestat Rip Off. You get the knowing little smile, or the carefully blank expression, or even the eye roll. Those are the polite ones. The more forthright just say it: “Reading Twilight, are you?”

Derivative is a fightin’ word and makes my muse wanna get all up in their face. “Hey, I was writing my story before Edward was a sparkle in Stephanie Meyers’ eye! And my vampire isn’t an emo refugee from Teen Beat!”

But you know, what are you gonna do? Whatever’s going on out there, you have to “fill your paper with the breathings of your heart,” as Wordsworth said.  So I’ll write my story, and eventually when editors send rejection letters that say “Oh, honey, vampires are so 2010,” I will just wait another ten years to resubmit it. And maybe then I’ll get to ruin some other writer’s life.

Some folks helped him get in touch with his mother — he remembered her email address but not her name, her face, or her voice. When he got home, his fiance was one of the first people to greet him. Not only did he not remember her, he did not love her. In fact, he couldn’t even conceive of himself loving her.

Besides being one of the saddest stories evar, it makes you think about the Big Questions. Like, what exactly IS love, then? How can it be that the only thing that makes this life worth living can be erased by a hit of synthetic chemicals?

Photo by sandwichgirl at the theater.

Photo by Rubin Starset from the Twitter protest.

And then I started yammering about how the same goes for one’s self… except in my case I really don’t think I’ve changed all that much in the last oh, twenty years or so. Really, I haven’t changed hardly at all. Have I.

My friend Mo just sort of looked at me over the top of her coffee cup.

Fast forward to a few weeks later, as I am standing in the bathroom getting ready for work.

And I notice the grey hairs at the crown of my head, and the lines at the corners of my eyes, and the cheekbones jutting as the collagen drains away, and the skin beneath my eyes that is less elastic, and the tiny broken capillaries on my nose. And I remember how my knees and back and neck hurt more often, and how I have to work out a lot more and drink a lot less. And how I have to wear a hearing aid when I watch T.V..

In retrospect, I think giving me the “Poor girl, I don’t want to be there when the high wears off” look was probably the kindest thing my friend could have done.