Fuck this.

I just came across a site that specialises in Vampire fiction.

http://www.lovevampires.com/index.htm

It gave five stars to Twilight. It's one of the most badly written, repetitive and less than mediocre books I have read in my life and that site gave it a solid five out of five review. No, wait. In fact I could not read it. No. I couldn't. I doubt I finished it. I think I just passed it on to another poor unfortunate soul, may God/dess have mercy on her.

Going through the site I discovered that there is a crapload of books in the vampire genre, by authors I have never heard in my life. It appears that there are more vampire's asses out there than there are vampires. It's scary and intimidating for someone like me who writes an essentially vampire novel. I mean for crying out loud. My vampires are not mysterious strangers that chuckle softly to themselves from the shadows of their dark castle. No, one of them appears with a mop in hand in the very first chapters. Another starts crying because he's so upset that he can't help it. The third has been used as a punching bag for so many years by his progenitor that has developed the psychology of a lifer in prison. He pussyfoots around everything and anything and tries to be invisible most of the time. How's that for dark and mysterious strangers? No?

Look, I am a woman. I can't help being romantic. But there is romantic and romantic. Most people believe romantic is dinner in a candlelit restaurant. I have very different ideas on it. And there is one very important element that does NOT mix with a romantic outlook. Realism. Realism and romanticism just don't get along. I am first and foremost trying to write a book that has a strong, realistic core to the degree this is possible since we're talking about vampires. I don't want black and white characters and I most certainly don't want caricatures or stereotypes. So if someone has to mop in the house of a very paranoid and misanthropic vampire then this someone is the vampire himself. I don't know who mops in the houses of all those other vampire characters. I suppose that unless they live in a sewer or a burrow someone DOES mop the house. :) So bite me.

I think I must invite all my male hesitant emo characters in one gathering and let them pat each others' backs for several hours and nag to their heart's content. Even if I turned that meeting alone in a book it would probably make a better read than Twilight.

And as I said before, bite me.

:) Ran :) dom :)

• When my hair was longer, whenever I took a shower, I afterwards had to remove long hairs from between my ass-cheeks. Now that my hair is barely at shoulder length, nothing has changed.

• I like to sing self-made songs with ridiculous lyrics whenever I am angry, bored or just because. One of them is an ode to my cat, another is a repetition of the words "zucchini  with oregano, zucchini over the piano."

• My newest cat loves to play fetch. She likes to play that with hair bands and me. She throws me to the other end of the room and then the hair bands pick me up and take me back to her, usually with a mild concussion. Hair bands like in early metal years, only from rubber.

• A good mosquito is a dead mosquito.

• A good Nazi is a brainwashed, hippy fucking, reduced to drooling moron and willing to admit the error of his ways, dead ashamed Nazi, who works as a volunteer at the third world countries.

• I have an authority problem. They cannot break my cat communicating code and wish they could eat the amounts of chocolate I eat and live to tell the tale. I, on the other hand, cannot talk because my mouth is stuffed.

• Sometimes I want to chase after people and when I catch them, beat seven shades of black and blue out of them. Sometimes it happens to me several times in the same day. And sometimes I love everybody, including my boogers. If it happened often my boogers would have reached 8.9 points in the Buddha scale, so I try to avoid it.

• Birds usually excite me as much as they excite my cats, especially small birds. I want to put them in my mouth whole. Robins are so cute and tiny. Worst of all are hummingbirds. I want to eat them in handfuls. I guess they are lucky not to live in Greece save for the island of Crete? The smaller the bird, the bigger my excitement. Small fluffy things that try to escape me. Nom nom nom. All mine. Same goes for baby rabbits and hamsters and generally small cute fluffy thingies that try to escape me.

• When I touch items that have been put aside for a long time and have gathered stale energies I start farting. Sometimes it smells so bad that I have to run to the other room while making outraged gurgling noises. In reality I'm secretly proud of their potency. I also like to smell my own dirty socks and underwear and yell 'ew!' before throwing them at the laundry basket. Oh, and I always want to look at my production after number two, to appraise the possible value and be sure no-one stole my poop from inside the toilet or something.

• Morbid and grotesque appeals to me as much as cute does. The combination is my specialty in my daily communication.

• Boobies are God/dess's gift to the boobless.

• Humongous boobies make the best pillows but not for the one owning them. 

• If we are not animals, why there is blood coming out from my vagina once a month? And why do men have trouble avoiding walls when they unexpectedly see boobies?

• For those of you who will read the above and claim I did not breastfed enough, I have breaking news to announce. I am still at the Freudian anal stage as well. I can hear my sense of humour cackling like a witch with rheumatism from the bottom of a toilet. Live with it.Or piss off.

• The perfect man is a combination of Jung and Oscar Wilde, with the past of Nero and Casanova and the bright future of Gandhi on the rare days he was possessed by the spirit of Jeffrey Dahmer. I won't mind less than perfect abs. But he has to have manners and killing lines, and be kinky in bed. And I would like him to be attractive. At least to me. I swear I'll be spoon feeding him ice cream, naked and dressed in whatever ridiculous outfit he wants me to wear. Even a bee suit. 

• I cannot live without eggs. People who do not eat eggs are infidels. They must all die. Except for those allergic to eggs. I'll let those live and feed them eggs three times a day.

•  God is a metaphor. God is prone to boob hypnotism. God is on vacation and forgot to return. God is particularly pissed off at me, but he can eat my pussy after I have shaved it sparkling bald and smooth and kiss my well developed ass. God/dess, on the other hand, is another story. One with a happier ending.

I dare say I am done. At least for now.

A harsh dose of reality...

A Letter from a Shelter Manager - anonymous in North Carolina

I think our society needs a huge "Wake-up" call. As a shelter manager, I am going to share a little insight with you all...a view from the inside if you will.

First off, all of you breeders/sellers should be made to work in the "back" of an animal shelter for just one day. Maybe if you saw the life drain from a few sad, lost, confused eyes, you would change your mind about breeding and selling to people you don't even know.

That puppy you just sold will most likely end up in my shelter when it's not a cute little puppy anymore. So how would you feel if you knew that there's about a 90% chance that dog will never walk out of the shelter it is going to be dumped at? Purebred or not! About 50% of all of the dogs that are "owner surrenders" or "strays", that come into my shelter are purebred dogs.

The most common excuses I hear are; "We are moving and we can't take our dog (or cat)." Really? Where are you moving to that doesn't allow pets? Or they say "The dog got bigger than we thought it would". How big did you think a German Shepherd would get? "We don't have time for her". Really? I work a 10-12 hour day and still have time for my 6 dogs! "She's tearing up our yard". How about making her a part of your family? They always tell me "We just don't want to have to stress about finding a place for her we know she'll get adopted, she's a good dog".

Odds are your pet won't get adopted; how stressful do you think being in a shelter is? Well, let me tell you, your pet has 72 hours to find a new family from the moment you drop it off. Sometimes a little longer if the shelter isn't full and your dog manages to stay completely healthy. If it sniffles, it dies. Your pet will be confined to a small run/kennel in a room with about 25 other barking or crying animals. It will have to relieve itself where it eats and sleeps. It will be depressed and it will cry constantly for the family that abandoned it. If your pet is lucky, I will have enough volunteers in that day to take him/her for a walk. If I don't, your pet won't get any attention besides having a bowl of food slid under the kennel door and the waste sprayed out of its pen with a high-powered hose. If your dog is big, black or any of the "Bully" breeds (pit bull, rottie, mastiff, etc) it was pretty much dead when you walked it through the front door.

Those dogs just don't get adopted. It doesn't matter how 'sweet' or 'well behaved' they are.

If your dog doesn't get adopted within its 72 hours and the shelter is full, it will be destroyed. If the shelter isn't full and your dog is good enough, and of a desirable enough breed it may get a stay of execution, but not for long . Most dogs get very kennel protective after about a week and are destroyed for showing aggression. Even the sweetest dogs will turn in this environment. If your pet makes it over all of those hurdles chances are it will get kennel cough or an upper respiratory infection and will be destroyed because shelters just don't have the funds to pay for even a $100 treatment.

Here's a little euthanasia 101 for those of you that have never witnessed a perfectly healthy, scared animal being "put-down".

First, your pet will be taken from its kennel on a leash. They always look like they think they are going for a walk happy, wagging their tails. Until they get to "The Room", every one of them freaks out and puts on the brakes when we get to the door. It must smell like death or they can feel the sad souls that are left in there, it's strange, but it happens with every one of them. Your dog or cat will be restrained, held down by 1 or 2 vet techs depending on the size and how freaked out they are. Then a euthanasia tech or a vet will start the process. They will find a vein in the front leg and inject a lethal dose of the "pink stuff". Hopefully your pet doesn't panic from being restrained and jerk. I've seen the needles tear out of a leg and been covered with the resulting blood and been deafened by the yelps and screams. They all don't just "go to sleep", sometimes they spasm for a while, gasp for air and defecate on themselves.

When it all ends, your pets corpse will be stacked like firewood in a large freezer in the back with all of the other animals that were killed waiting to be picked up like garbage. What happens next? Cremated? Taken to the dump? Rendered into pet food? You'll never know and it probably won't even cross your mind. It was just an animal and you can always buy another one, right?

I hope that those of you that have read this are bawling your eyes out and can't get the pictures out of your head I deal with everyday on the way home from work.

I hate my job, I hate that it exists & I hate that it will always be there unless you people make some changes and realize that the lives you are affecting go much farther than the pets you dump at a shelter.

Between 9 and 11 MILLION animals die every year in shelters and only you can stop it. I do my best to save every life I can but rescues are always full, and there are more animals coming in everyday than there are homes.

My point to all of this DON'T BREED OR BUY WHILE SHELTER PETS DIE!

Hate me if you want to. The truth hurts and reality is what it is. I just hope I maybe changed one persons mind about breeding their dog, taking their loving pet to a shelter, or buying a dog. I hope that someone will walk into my shelter and say "I saw this and it made me want to adopt". THAT WOULD MAKE IT WORTH IT.

Fallen

If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole

Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.

- Muslih al-Din Sa'di (Saadi)

Gulistan (Garden of Roses), 1258

It's never enough.

 

Once you had told me that my way of thinking is too narrow. Perhaps it is, but I will repeat it. This world is a fallen place. This world is a sad place. I don't really care what you think. You perceive the world through your eyes. I perceive it through mine. And I see a fallen place. A sad place to be.

It's not only the people that are sad. It's everything. The tastes, smells, sounds, colours, everything is reduced to a flat minimum. I see ghosts and shadows instead of people and colours. I see the hidden flaw. I was created to see flaws in the continuity, and put them right. I cannot do that anymore but strangely enough I still see them. This place is a sad place to be. Purgatory, not hell, and the kind of purgatory that never redeems one of anything. It's like sticky shit that just won't wash off no matter how much you wash it. The stink of it stays with you for what seems an eternity.

Entry level copycats that try to pass for beings with consciousness populate this sad imitation of a place to be. I would love to know who is responsible for this mess to execute them in the slowest way possible, or even better, trap them here and let them live the rest of eternity on this plane. EVERYTHING is not enough and I have much, much less than everything.

I see a work of art. I hear a song. I see a beautiful, truly beautiful person. And my heart stops and I remember divinity. I remember for a split second what it was like to live in a state of being where the four elements were united in a fifth, where the ecstasy of fire, the bliss of water, the enlightenment of air and vitality of earth were united in Ether, and I lived immersed in it. I hate this place, I hate this pathetic imitation of a world where mediocre is considered worth of praise and unoriginality is the norm. I hate this portion of universe and everything it contains, because I still can feel with my heart what it was like to be whole. This world is not enough for me, and the time I have is not enough to do what needs be done. This too is a trap. There is no time, but how conveniently this place is designed to deprive us of it.

I have been waging war against reality and normality for as long as I remember myself. It must be the way I am made. I cannot rest, I cannot stop seeing, I cannot ignore. I am not happy with my share. Yes, I appreciate everything I have. It is not enough. I need to become better. I need to become the best I can be or go mad. This place refuses to host me and I refuse to integrate. This reality doesn't like me and I don't like it either. I will somehow manage to make it bend to my will or I'll destroy myself trying. I don't care one way or the other. This existence makes me deeply unhappy. I will either create a haven in it and transform the whole of reality or nuke the fucking thing. I will either succeed or die trying. I want to see people that sparkle with intelligence, creativity and beauty from within. I want to converse with equals or shut my mouth and concentrate on my task. The rest don't concern me on any level. Yes, I care about humanity, but at the same time if 90% of the human population was gone tomorrow I would sigh with relief. They take up space. Nothing more, nothing less. And they take up space due to their choices, their beliefs and way of being. Not because anyone forced them to be wallpaper. So let them go fuck themselves. I don't have a minute to spare for those who perpetuate this condition of irresponsibility and not thinking and avoiding pain. They have their own thing to do and I have my own thing to do. Let me be. I am busy.

Fuck you all, and your convenient ideals and fashionable cars and empty insides.

Fuck off and die a quiet death and leave us all alone.

Earth is full. Go home.

Bloody idiots.

Run, little fishie, run.

You were certain it was dead.

You were on the way to put some money in the atm of the bank to be able to buy something on Monday. It was Sunday. The weather was great for October, and walking to the bank seemed like a pleasant thing to do. Till you saw it.

There is an abandoned house with a garden near the bank. It used to host a pizza chain, then changed to another food-related franchise, till it went out of business. Now the garden is unkempt and full of garbage. Your eyes stopped on a black and white tuxedo cat sitting on the grass, its face turned to the other direction, looking towards the empty building. Looking. Not really looking. You walked there and pushed its head with your foot, absolutely positive it was dead. Flies and wasps were buzzing around it and you were sure it was a matter of time before the smell of decomposition hit you at full blast.

It never happened.

It was still alive, face hidden in its front paws, green fluids running from a nose covered in crusted mucus. Its eyes were sunken in its skull, it was bony, dirty, and it smelled like something that ought to be dead already.

You got away from it, cursing your luck. You did not want to see this. You did not want another responsibility.

You walked away still cursing and went to the bank. Tried to put the money in, but there was no envelope to use. You decided to walk to the other bank and think over what to do with the cat. You did not want to take it home. It would die anyway and you have too many cats and too little time already. So walked all the way to the other bank you did, only to discover there was no envelope there either. How typically Greek is that?

Outside the church on the way back, you stopped and picked up a black satin bow from the ground. It had probably fallen off some shoe or article of clothing of a churchgoer. You unwrapped it, pleasantly surprised that there was no glue on it, and decided to play a simple game. You would wrap the length of satin around your index finger. If the number of times it went fully around was odd, you would take the cat home. If it was even, you would leave it there. So you wrapped the satin ribbon and it went around your finger three and a half times. Odd number.

Cursing your luck you went back to the empty building. You still did not want to take it home. But then you remembered that on Monday you had picked up a half dead Death's head Hawkmoth from the ground because you did not want anyone to accidentally step on it, and kept it in a little box until it died peacefully. Wouldn't you pick up a cat when you claim you love them so much, especially one that had flies and wasps crawling on it though it was still not dead?

You took off your long sleeved t-shirt and put the cat in. It was a he. When you got home and unwrapped the bundle, you had one more 'pleasant' surprise. He was full of flies' eggs. You had to wash him three times to get rid of all of them, and neither of you was happy with the procedure. Then you dried him with towels and the hair dryer and wrapped him to be warm and put him in a cardboard box to be safe and alone. You tried to give him food, or water, but he wanted neither. He was going to die and you both knew it.

He died later that night, while you were watching True Blood and eating your dinner. He started making weak, pained sounds, that startled you and made you go to the box to see what was going on. Though he was a cat you did not know and had never petted, you prayed for whatever entity cares about them to make it quick. You even shed a few tears for him and petted him and once more you wished you had not picked him up. But the decision is rarely ours to make. There are always two roads ahead, each with a different cost for our soul. Neither road has hell at its end. Hell is an indisputable reality within our heads.

Next morning, before you went to the bank for one more time, you threw the box and him away.

There is no moral in this story. Or if there is one, you still don't know it.

(I am Pisces, hence the title).

The parade of bitches

And I was worried that there are not enough women in my novel. Yeah, right. And suddenly, KABOOM! women everywhere. And not just your garden variety woman. No no no. Until now all of them smart, interesting, powerful individuals, the kind of woman that will not mince her words when something annoys her, the kind of woman I would be proud to see around. Fierce ladies, powerful protectors, as dangerous as the male heroes if not more. And very sexual too. I am impressed by myself.

I don't want this novel to be gay erotica. I could target that niche in literature, but it's too narrow. I don't want to limit my scope and audience and first and foremost I don't want to limit my heroes in their choices. There are male/ male couples in there, but also male/ female and female/ female. Why the hell not? Variety is good and life is fantastically unpredictable. Why be a stereotype when you can have it all? Why NOT have it all? If you can handle it, go for the sky and don't stop there either.

I am really curious as to HOW others will react to this book, if I manage to get it published. But that's not something I must worry about it now. Right now I have a plot detail to take care of. Praise and curses will follow at some other point. Work, bitch. Work your ass off and the rest will follow. Work like there is no tomorrow.

Ahhhh... My ass hurts from so much self- flagellation. But oh well. :)

With my nose inside a book

I finished with chapters ten and eleven. I feel exhausted. I have been working on them for the past two weeks or so. I tend to treat every chapter like it is a short story. There is a beginning, a middle and an end. Every chapter is a scene, full and separate than the rest, each scene following the previous and preparing the next, but at the same time as complete and independent as possible. At least to the best of my ability.

Internet is so slow that I find myself barking with rage every time I try to watch a youtube video. There are so many things that go wrong, but I must not focus on what is wrong but on what is right. If I focus on what's wrong I am fucked. There are always occurrences and conditions that are not to my liking. No need to make them my exclusive reality and constantly feed them with my attention. I should just focus on my job, and my present job is writing.

I am listening to game soundtracks from youtube. Perfect music for writing. It is one of the reasons I am angry with how slow internet is. Two examples:

Assassin's Creed 2 Soundtrack

Mass Effect 2 Soundtrack

I am also reading Lunatic Cafe by Laurell K. Hamilton. I don't know if 'reading' is the right characterisation for this combination of sighing, cursing, suppressing my impulse to throw the book out of the window as well as reading it. The protagonist is a perfect example of the bad stereotype of a young American woman. If she was blonde and stupid as well she would be THE example of a young American woman. Prudish (no sex before marriage), self-righteous, stubborn, uncaring as to how her actions affect others as long as she feels that things go her way, and above all a "good girl". I want to slap her silly and kick her senseless. Character development? What's that then? Is it really necessary? And it's a pity because the writing style is effortless, but it remains to just that. It never takes off.

I am not joking when I said that I write in order to have a  book to read. I cannot find good books to read on the vampire genre anymore. I am bored. I want something different. I am sick of cliches, sick of all the stereotypes. I want to explore the sensual and sexual side of the vampire in more than the bad male vampire/ innocent female victim relationship. I want all kinds of sex in there. Gay, straight and bisexual, vanilla, kinky and bloodbath. I want characters with motivations and fears. I am sick of the books I find. And with extra pride I want to refer to the fact a friend of mine who's a homophobic read a chapter with violent gay sex and he did not even realise until it was too late. This means I managed to achieve my target, which is, STORYTELLING. Sucking you into the story, not letting you realise what's going on, rendering you incapable to stop until you have read it. And even after reading it, be just too absorbed  to care. I patted myself on the back for that. Well done. All this bleeding my head over a computer screen and a keyboard has paid off. Thank you, Elizabeth. Well done.

Oh God no...

I wonder why the so-called alternative sites (see Vampire Freaks) are full of emo teenagers with fringes? I haven't got anything against fringes per se, but when I see cute teenage things with duck faces and fringes I want to slap them. I can't help it. It's a knee-jerk reaction. Just like that. Blame it on my sadistic side. And then I want to get a pair of scissors and hack the damn fringe. And then I want to spank their asses as if they were tambourines. With all the facial piercings they have they will probably jingle like tambourines, too. Argh. Half a kilo of metal on your face and not even doing it right. I mean, what exactly is the purpose of those damn little balls protruding from your nostrils like permanent boogers? I have seen so few people that the piercing actually looks good on them. The rest merely have those eternal metal boogers just outside their noses. I suppose they can always use this excuse to flirt with people of their preferred sex, asking for a handkerchief.

And the drama. Drama drama drama. Nooooooo. I don't want to hear why your life sucks so much. When you're 15, everything sucks and nobody sucks you, which is the basic reason for the drama. With all those hormones having a party in your head and body I can understand why, but shouldn't such sites be strictly over 18? Just saying.

Another fantastic American puritan thing. Calling someone a pedophile for flirting with someone under 18 years of age. A pedophile is a person that is attracted by children, which means, pre-puberty children. Once the teens kick in, the whole "child" notion goes out of the window. Anyone in their teens is not a child anymore. The lowest legal consent age in Europe is 13, in Spain, and I have lost count of how many European countries have 14 as the limit. This is NOT to say that anyone in their teens know what's good for them, or are fully responsible for themselves. This is why we recall our teens with mixed feelings of wonder and terror, about how we made it through alive and sane despite how STUPID we were. But when we use the term 'pedophile', we refer to someone attracted by any child from zero to more or less 12, even 13 years, not older. When the hormones kick in, the teenager is as much of a child as a T-Rex is a lizard. You do catch my drift. I do understand that there are different age limits in countries around the world but my problem has to do with the definition, not the mechanics or the morality. A teenager is JAILBAIT (if you're American). Not a child. So flirting or fucking a teenager does not make you a pedophile. Unless you're a 'lucky' American.

Rant over.

Off I go to write more...

Bye bye wisdom tooth

It was nice knowing you. Right now I feel the left side of my face like one big frozen burger. Oh well, nothing to worry about. And the taste of blood in my mouth together with chocolate milk. What fun.

Now, let's try writing the same text with the keyboard turned to Greek.

Ιτ ςασ νιψε κνοςινγ υοθ. Ριγητ νος Ι φεελ τηε λεφτ σιδε οφ μυ φαψε λικε ονε βιγ φροζεν βθργερ. Οη ςελλ, νοτηινγ το ςορρυ αβοθτ. Ανδ τηε ταστε οφ βλοοδ ιν μυ μοθτη τογετηερ ςιτη ψηοψολατε μιλκ. ΅ηατ φθν.

I hope you're all good!

WRITING.

I am writing.

I am constipated, have discovered an impressive cavity in my (last) wisdom tooth, the floor of my room has absorbed moisture and the wood has expanded and I cannot close the door and the other laptop is dead and I am writing like mad.

I am reading a book and yesterday spent a quarter of an hour yelling comments and observations out loud to no-one in particular. You can read them for your pleasure (?) here:

"I mean what the fuck, fucking hell fuck, I am struggling with every available braincell to make this appear gradual, I am torturing my heads (the one I have on my shoulders, and several others in the refrigerator, I mean obviously, why else use plural here) in order to be smooth, smooth gods god dammit, gradual, you know, not like we've only just met and BOOOM! sex, and this is what gets published, I don't even know why I struggle with my craft, and erase all the repeated words, and bury my fucking nose in two different dictionaries and one thesaurus if I cannot come up with the word I am looking for, and re-write the same chapter again and again and again to make the flow of the story natural and effortless, for the love of holy fuck, put some effort into your writing, hell yes I want to read sex, hell no like this. This is not sex but microwave popcorn, just add microwave. I mean save me a fried Godzilla for later, and if I just wanted to write about sex and no plot I would write the words cock, pussy (or ass), in, out, in out, in out, in, out, boobies jumping up and down, moan, moan moan, sigh, !SUDDENLY! Jizz everywhere! Who cares???"

(I am not sure what people think when they see me during one of those live-comment broadcasts of insanity. I wave my hands dramatically as well and make faces and noises. I am not sure if the best way to do this is radio, camera or a padded cell.)

~~~!!!WRITING< WRITING< WRITING< LALALA< WRITING< WRITING< WRITING!!!~~~

This is the point where the writing starts to take off the ground. Until now I wasn't even sure what was happening. I never use a plot. I have a very general idea of what it is about and then just throw all the characters in and wait to see what will happen. Stephen King does the exact same thing. So I threw everyone in together with everyone else and I kept looking at the progress. (It mostly consisted of characters telling other characters off at first or batting at their faces like annoyed cats. Most of my characters aren't the get along easily/ the more the merrier type.) And for the first time I start realising this is GOING somewhere and I think I have a very vague idea WHERE. The two basic characters are in, the third one must be introduced now. Just after I finish with the chapters with the second character. Vampires with special needs, violent sex, crude language, a masochistic psychic and murderous twins. Not bad. Now everything will start flooding in. It will be something of a shaggathon, vampire novel, suspense/ horror/ romance kind of book. Now, don't you dare tell me there are no such books! I know there aren't! This is why I am writing mine. Silly, silly boys and girls, but of course. I first and foremost write in order to have something to read!!! Silly. It's like masturbation, only with more people watching. BWA HA HAHA HASSSAAAAAN HERE I COME!!! Eat my dust and shit fucking troglodytes of shit books. I am going at almost full speed now. Or to quote Luciphur from Poison Elves,

EAT CROW!!!

I love you all. Smooch!

I go write now. Open your umbrellas, jizz is coming. *O*

Writing again...

It is more than welcome, although it comes out in an unusual way. Old characters are re-introduced in my head and sometimes I am not sure to what direction they mean to go or what they want to say. Aubrey is back, George and William are back (secondary characters, total cutthroats but very interesting) and Sergios is also back. Edward, Aubrey's "father" is also re-introduced. I am trying to listen to what they have to say. It's not always easy. I think I know them but I don't really know them anymore. They have changed since 2003 that I began writing their stories. I still have the old stories but cannot use them, they are not valid anymore. And I had done such a good job back then, at least plot-wise. But I should not fret. The plot will be better now because I am a better writer. And there is total freedom concerning what I can do. That world is mine, the characters are mine, and I can even introduce characters from other stories since they all live in that same world. It's a matter of finding my rhythm again, and getting re-acquainted with the characters.

(I am sure this entry will bore people to tears, but it's OK. I never made the blog for other people to begin with.)

I wonder what will happen to this blog if I ever manage to get my stories published. I will probably have to disassociate it from my name. What joy.

Speaking of names, I am trying to find a pseudonym for me. I like Elizabeth, but Vasilaki is not exactly the easiest surname. Any ideas? I am trying to avoid the too obvious ones like "Desdemona Ravencrow" and "Lucretia Deathrain". (Or as a friend said: "Petronella Deathpanties". xD) I want it to sound like a surname that does exist, but a tiny pun would not be unwelcome. At the same time it needs to be small as Elizabeth is four syllables long. 

If I don't manage to come with any good ideas I'll just keep "V-" as it brings to my mind a lot of pleasant associations (V for Vendetta, vampire, the Latin number 5 -which is my number- and V, as in vampire blood from True Blood).

Right. Off I go to write. Be more interesting than poor ol' me, as I am too busy to do anything more interesting right now.

Dominic

Your father never allowed you to learn the violin. "You will not," he had said, his voice dripping scorn, "learn to play that thing. My son will not play that which amuses drunkards and lowlifes in village fairs." And you had to obey, because when you didn't, he wasn't shy about making you hurt in dozens of places with his hands or his belt. So you, the marquis's son, never learned it. You never touched the instrument the relatives on your gypsy mother's side played with such skill that made it sound like a weeping human heart, or a banshee, or a storm over the distant mountains. You learned to play the piano instead. And you also learned to drive your father crazy, to laugh at his face, and weave magic with nothing but spit and a mumbled curse, while your father pored over heavy tomes written in obscure Latin and badly copied Greek.

And you grew up to become fearsome.

And you grew old, much older than any human possibly could, though your visage did not reveal it, and still you never learned to play the violin.

And one day she came into your life.

And for the first time in your very long years you found yourself yelling just like your father had. Setting rules that she broke with a laugh and ample defiance. Chasing her inside your mansion of a house swearing to God you'd strangle that brat even if it was the last thing you'd ever do. You found yourself angry again, your temper flaring. You remembered what it was like to drive someone crazy, but this time you were at the receiving end. You found yourself ambushed, surprised, made fun of.

I think this is when you actually understood and forgave your father.

And it must have been then that you realised for the first time that you never did learn the violin, not even when your father was gone. Because she had the guts to pose the question.

Will you learn it now? Or you think you're too old and tired for that, for learning to touch a new beloved when your fingers run the piano keys with such skill that make it sound like a weeping human heart, or a banshee, or a storm over the distant mountains?

I love you so much.

All those people that came to inhabit my head over the years and tell me their stories, or allowed me to see fragments.

I love you so much.

You are what will be left of me when my time comes.

“The blazing fire makes flames and brightness out of everything thrown into it.”
― Marcus Aurelius

Seraph

Today is the first day my face in the mirror looks familiar again. I haven't a clue why.

I saw you in my sleep last night. 

It's funny how I see you in my sleep while we don't talk in real life. You were wearing a light blue suit that shined at parts with an almost satin sheen. I am guessing that it was the tie, or the shirt that shined. This time you looked like your usual self. And blue looked good on you, although I have never seen you wearing it. 

Damned fairies. Damned race of alcoholic, sex addicted, heartless, whimsical nutters. Nothing but trouble and heartache. It's all about your glamour and conquests. I am guessing most of you die of liver failure or drug overdose, and those who don't just carry some kind of STD to their dying day. But I forgot; you're a lucky bunch of arseholes. You manage to avoid disease most of the time even if you're not particularly careful.

I would so spank them collectively. Using planks. Or better big clubs and flattening their stupid heads.

Talking about fairies, the character I would mostly like to BE (from my own ones) is Seraph. Seraph has a fairy soul, but not the "drink and make merry" type, but rather the "kill and fuck mercilessly" type. He's Irish, 6'3'' (1, 93m), long coal black hair, gray blue, almost silvery eyes, very pale skin, lots of blue black tattoos, and also a real piece of work. A brooding, misanthropic, nearly growling young man, presently in University, who's about as amused with humanity as I am, but not really interested in censoring his mouth if you aggravate him. What are you going to do, hit him? You can try. He's been trained to kill vampires since he was practically a child. He has even killed a few. Come on, try. Give it your best shot. The doctors will have such a good time re-arranging your bones afterwards. Like playing Tetris but with no visible bricks. Thankfully Seraph looks like someone that it's NOT in your best interests to annoy. Most people instinctively know he can break them in two. Even bullies shrink away from him, and those who don't are usually used as an example for others, and offer quality time to doctors and physiotherapists (practicing the medical Tetris I described just now).

What I admire about Seraph is his willpower and self-discipline. He has been exercising since he was very little, partly because he needs to be in perfect physical condition for hunting and partly because regular exercise keeps his murderous and restless nature in check. He never questions what he is, never doubts what his responsibility is. He's quite content with his share. He's been brought up to kill vampires, period. Not all vampires. The ones that kill humans. You'd be surprised to know, perhaps, that most modern day vampires would rather not. You can't magic away a corpse, and leaving a trail of corpses behind you is guaranteed to attract the wrong kind of attention. Seraph takes care of those stupid enough or uncaring enough to do so.

Clichés I have tried to avoid: 

He's not a vampire. I mean, give me a break. Jesus wept.

He's not a loner because he has been heartbroken. He just happens to enjoy the company of his own self a lot more than that of other people. He never invests a lot in order to be heartbroken.

He's not misanthropic because he's old and disappointed. He is merely disillusioned. Has seen through the lies and appearances and social conventions and knows how petty and ugly most people are on the inside.

He does not kill vampires to protect humans. He doesn't like humans very much to begin with. No, his mind is far too complicated and different to see humans as 'good' and 'vampires' as bad. He strives to preserve the balance, because a vampire that habitually kills is a chaotic, disruptive, unchecked power. Still he's not obsessive. He's aware he cannot kill ALL wild vampires out there. He, too, is only human after all. At least his body is.

He does not kill for revenge. Another cliché. He never had any of his relatives or friends killed by a vampire. Hell, I am not sure if he even has any friends. He's pretty dispassionate about it all. Vampire hunting just happens to be his calling, and he enjoys doing it because he’s what he’s best at. 

In addition to the above, he can also kick seven shades of blue out of most people, armed with nothing but his stunning body and a grin. xD

I would love to be Seraph. Don't get me wrong, I love vampires. But give me a good body and many years of training to kill and a few bullies to practice on. Oh god yes. This would be orgasmic.

I go do something else now, before I soak my pants so thoroughly that my socks get wet too.