Hey you bastards, it's so freakin' late. Whattya want at this hideous hour, hm? Why'd you call me? I just got cut off the internet here in the middle of a pleasant icq conversation that wuz not yet boring me to death. Letting you know again that I'm going to be vanishing from the world wide web for a while as of Monday. ("Hey my friend, are we gonna make it till Monday? Another Friday night waiting for a revelation..." ) Fully cut off. For an indetermined time. So you'll go without my blood. I keep adding hidden pages here and there on this site. You'll have to find them yourself, but I'll link to today's new page right here. See any colour at all there? Moving on... I feel like I am alienating everybody. But then why should I care? It's not as though I wuz ever welcomed. Last night I decided that I will. And I won't have any failed attempts. I will succeed fully, completely. I can never say that without thinking of the Tragically Hip. No I won't break this text up. It would probably be too readable to you. I don't think I'm really wanting you. But I'm hooked. I like the question Perry Farrel raised with "The Gift". What would you do if you found your lover dead? Freak out and call the cops right away? Or spend one more night with him/her? Dramatic pauses/spaces would be welcome here. I'm too tired. I'll keep going though. I've a commitment. Bah! I just want to be wanted. "A beautiful mind or a beautiful body... I know which one I catches my eyes." -Verve, when they were just Verve. I get in Christmas moods, always when it is not Christmas at all. When Christmas does come, nothing I do gets me feeling Christmassy at all. So I just pretend, in little random instalments, that it is Christmas. In June. In November. Whenever. There is a boy I want. I'm not telling anymore. It wuz- No. Nevermind. It's YOU. The problem is, if I read such a thing, and wuz hoping this person wuz wanting ME, I would just think "Well fuck. He/She is hot for someone else. Fine. I'll just turn off my interest in him/her." Given that, it wuz not very thinking of me to say that. This person could very well come here (uh huh), read this, and think "Oh well. See ya Chaara." Well, if it's that flimsy, good riddance then. I would really love to cut open a vein here and just keep bleeding all over you till we're both fully satiated, but I fear we never will be. I know I never will be. But I would keep bleeding. Till I'm all Lestat-post-Claudia-attact, on the floor in a spreading puddle of my own blood, reaching out with a claw-like hand, gasping "Claudia! Louis! Put me in my coffin!" and you would just stare at me in horror and say "Louis. Lift me up." to save your sweet little satin slippers from the ever-closer-licking-spreading puddle of my blood. And you would be so callous. And aloof. "The swamp," you would say. And you would slip my freakish remains into that muck where the reptiles slither in vague blue night illumination, and think nothing more of it. Perhaps you'd then board a ship to Paris. Whatever. So I won't bleed for you. Cuz you just watch. Numb. You take and never give.

And you call me a vampire.