Every monday we have Dept. Head meetings and usually I just sit there and don't say anything. Because I know that, generally speaking, saying things in dept. head meetings is not a good thing. I know. I've seen it happen to other people.
So what do I go and do today? Hmmmmm?
Okay, what I said was not stupid. But the response I got made me feel stupid. And if that non existent person that should be following me around, had been there. . .well. . .I would've had a big red hand print on my face. BUT I WOULDN'T BE FEELING STUPID RIGHT NOW!!!
So. . .lesson learned. It's not just other people, it's everyone. And we should all learn to just keep our mouths shut at these things and go back to our little jobs and do the best we can with what we have. For ever and ever and ever. Ahmen. Brother. Hallelujah.
BTW, here's my entry to the Intoxication Fic should anyone like to read it. It's short and to the point. And there are no sex, drugs or rock and roll. Shame on me.
The Journal by Snow
This is a strange time in my life. My unlife. My undead life. Whatever. Strange for someone that has been around for upwards of two hundred and fifty years to be starting a journal. Strange that I should care to examine my thoughts, my dreams, my experiences. I should just leave that to the people that do it so well. The Watchers. The Lawyers. The ones that seem to know more about me, more about my past than I do.
And I was there. Okay, I was busy living it, so I might not have been paying the best of attention at the time.
But now I find myself drawn back, more and more.
To my short bit of humanity and all it’s accompanying emotions. My constant battles with my father. My struggle with myself to try to get along with him, to do what he wanted. To be the son that he needed. And my complete inability to do that. My weakness for alcohol. For gambling. For staying up all night. For sleeping late. For fighting. For women. For men. For sex.
To Darla and her bright, blonde beauty. Her hypnotizing smile that could cheer me out of any dark mood. Her soft laughter and even softer skin. And her body that made me forget my name. She loved me because I joined her out in the world, something her beloved Master and coven was unable or unwilling to do. She hated me because she couldn’t control me and I defied her, repeatedly, at every turn. But I gave her the view she so craved.
My Childe Druscilla and her dark, scary madness. That I created. Her visions that we learned to listen to, because if you could decipher the reality out of the obscure symbolism than you might know what the future would bring. Or what she thought her collection of china dolls were conversing about. It was always a toss up.
Spike with his hostile, fearless attitude. I can see now that he was constantly looking towards me for favor, for acceptance. For love. And I gave him none. Oh, the tidbit here and there, sure. But in the long run I was as iron fisted and close minded with him as my own father had been with me. And he grew to hate me with a passion, with a fire that, looking back, I really admire.
To the Gypsies. The sweet, exotic wine-flavored blood and the agony of my soul and the loss of Angelus. And yes. There are times when I miss Angelus. Miss his quick wit, his hard-edged, blunt humor. His egotism. His ability to take on anything, any situation gleefully, without a thought or concern for anyone but himself.
Who wouldn’t miss that?
To the years that I was lost. Tormented by this soul. Wandering. Uncaring. Unwilling to look any further inside of myself than to feel the incessant hunger, the deep self-hate for what I had become. A demon that wouldn’t kill. A vampire that couldn’t feed. A human that didn’t belong.
To this very day I don’t understand why I hadn’t committed suicide. Why I hadn’t just simply walked into the sun or fallen upon a sharp piece of wood. I could have buried myself so deep in the earth I would never be able to get out, would never be found.
I had nothing to live for. Not the thrill of the chase. Not the sensuality of the torture. Not even the rush of the blood. And believe me. There is nothing like that particular part of being a vampire. Nothing.
You think you know flavors, tastes, spices when you are human. No. You don’t. Just like DNA makes every human unique, it makes every drop of blood different. Every single one.
Why do you think Vampires are constantly hungry? Constantly hunting?
Because it tastes so damn good!
And out of everything I’ve mentioned I think that this is what it all comes down to; the blood. The intoxication and desire for the blood.
If you live long enough, travel well enough, you can start picking out the humans that you want. Not based on their availability, naivete or looks. But because you might be feeling like a full-bodied Greek, or a plump little Dutchman. A rangy, tough, tasty Texan. The thin, sweet, undeniably delicious blood of the Swiss. The list could go on and on.
When I was without conscience, it did.
Sometimes I think about that. And I miss that limitless diversity. Even today, this very moment I could tell you what my beautiful seer Cordelia would taste like. Or handsome, smart Wesley. Or the strong, formidable Gunn. Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely love these humans. I completely trust them. I have trusted them with my life many, many times.
But to the demon that I am, behind this human façade, they are still just food.
And despite all the good deeds that I do now, the people I save, the atonement I seek, the demons I kill, the redemption that’s promised, the endless missions that I’m sent on by The Powers,
I am a vampire.
And I still hunger for the chase, for the fight, for the struggle.
For the infinitely varied, rich, hot, pumping into your mouth, coating your lips, pouring down your throat, human blood.
I think that this is all I will say about this subject tonight.
So, if you are feeling so inclined. . .let me know what you think. I value your opinion.
Or just slap me. Really hard.