[Editorial note: predictive text would have you believe I live off the blood of Virginians, which is absurd.]
I don’t go anywhere unless I’m invited. “How come I see you tweet about Target, then? Huh?” you ask because you are such a clever dick. Target invites me to them every day with about 79 emails. CVS, too! They beg me to come in & offer me coupons, which is like an invitation with a demand to bring gifts (of cash or credit).
I literally had to be told to come to church by a fellow parishioner. I have not shown up to things only to receive plaintive texts asking me where I am, to which I reply “I wasn’t invited.” They seem to think I was, because they made some vague statement about everybody coming down to something.
But surely that doesn’t include me. Nobody has dropped by my domicile with a calling card, requesting my presence at Applebee’s or at whatever fresh hell “everybody” has congregated.
I just assume I am not included if I am not specifically told to be present.
I now realize this is less a vampire thing & might be an English thing. Americans seem to have no problem showing up to stuff for which there is no specific request for the pleasure of their company. In fact, if an American is asked to RSVP, there seems to be some confusion, like that maybe RSVP stands for “Right…So…Victorian protocol? Well, fuck that. We won a war!”
Simmer down, Some Americans. I know it’s not all of you.
The problem with my problem is that I sometimes inadvertently hurt feelings. “We all went to So&So’s house, but you just went home. Do you hate us?” Well, now, yes, because you have asked me this dumb question. But no, I didn’t hate you. You were looking at everyone else when you said it. I was petting a cat or whatever. Nobody made eye contact with me or said my name.
Is that weird? I guess so. Also, nobody was offering the blood of virgins. Do you know how hard it is to find adult virgins these days? So I had to return to my lair, I guess. I don’t know.
I also assume people can only take me in small doses, because small talk is exceedingly difficult for me. I am also guaranteed to say something awful if I’m allowed to be around too long. It will never be intended to be awful, but I know it is awful because half the people burst into hearty guffaws, & the other half look as though they long for pearls to clutch.
I admit also that once I learn you are a blusher, it becomes my mission in life to turn you 8 shades of pink by midnight. The trouble is, I am also an irredeemable blusher.
So if you want me somewhere, you have to say. Text, FB invite, look into my eyes, say my name. Preferably pin a note to an adult virgin & send them round my place two weeks in advance. That’s a love.
Or just enjoy this song, where the strings are sadly arranged on synth, but oh well: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=bCukHL4L-5Q