Bloodsober I: Happtitude

I’m lucky in life is probably the best explanation for the phenomenon of years of general happtitude. Yes the word doesn’t exist, but neither does the person I was yesterday because I woke up today like I do each day and gurgled a little tune to myself as I brushed my teeth. Wondering what would have happened if my parents would have given me some structure like religion in my life. What if I was raised a Christian, to believe in a god so whole-heartedly that I would deny my own children if they went against his word? What if I was raised with a Wiccan sensibility and became unable to understand the reasoning behind most of society? I know that seems a harsh thought, but I wanted to piss a few people off for reasons they probably wouldn’t understand. So I won’t get into that. What if, like my now flaming email, I was raised to adore the cause of Satan and allowed my self to bask in an ever-spiraling spin to oblivion? Not in hell itself, but in myself. What if I was raised on pure logic and died, twenty years before I wrote these lines, by my own hands? What if I had been lied to my whole life?

I asked questions yesterday and the questions and findings begot the person I am this morning. That’s how I was raised, in an everlasting quest to find the next question. To see what I didn’t know a second ago and assimilate it into me for better or worse. Or rather maybe for better, most likely for worse, but that’s the price I pay sometimes. So does fire burn, yes. I found this out as a child. Does love hurt, sometimes. I found this out as a teen. Can you bring back the past, no. I found this out as an adult. What does it all mean, I don’t know. Do I care, hell yes, but without prejudice. I’ll hate and love only the individual.

So here I am today, dressed in black because women in black are better in bed. To my preferences to be sure. I partake in the drinking of blood because I found I liked the taste. Not because of some cultish fade, but because I didn’t know, so I asked a question and found out for my self. I indeed like blood. I have pale skin because I’m up all night writing in my journal or working on my next story to submit. Why? Because I like the idea of scaring people for a living and besides I write better at night. Less distractions I find. Except for the metal blaring out of my CD player, Pantera or Disturbed most likely. I also have long dark hair, because I asked myself, do I really need to spend money to cut it or even worse, mess it up myself? The rest was pure DNA chance. I like the dark because I find more honesty in it than I could ever see in the light. Just look at what pours out of you heart when you cry as I have done every now and then. In the end it will be more satisfying.

Just don’t whine about your useless life, that brings nothing useful. So if I see a little punk who looks like me and tries to befriend me, I will tell him to step off because it feels good to do so. I’ll let him go home to his misunderstanding parents and ramble about his life, to the background of his favorite black music, nevermore. Nevermore. That night, I’ll just ask myself if he’s dead yet.

So what is the point of it all? there isn’t any. There doesn’t have to be. Just like there doesn’t have to be an afterlife or some reward or anything for that matter. After all in the end, you have nothing and I have nothing, happy or not. I’ll just wake up and wonder if I still believe in all this nonsensical chatter, but that’s a question I’ll leave for tomorrow.

As always, I’m open to all opinions great and small.

Bloodsober@darksites.com