Sort of Dead

2 - How I Embarrassed Myself In Middle School

For instance, I can tell you that I like the taste of blood.

If I was hiding stuff from you, that would be the first thing I would keep to myself. See? One hundred percent truthful.

Now, don't get ahead of yourself. I'm not a vampire or anything. It's just that - look, like if I get a paper cut or something, I would like to eat my scabs and have a lick off the cut. So if anyone has a paper cut, let me know. Just, like, one good lick. I promise. That's all. It's not like I am a sadist or anything.

But, see, like if a person loves bungee-jumping, he or she won't be able to resist themselves if they saw all the three C-s in front of them: cord, cliff and crane. Some might even do with a few less instruments.
It's precisely like that. I mean, I hate bungee-jumping, I'm talking about the dynamic between me and blood. That's right. I said "dynamic". Big deal.

So, it's not like I am a blood-thirsty maniac waiting to pounce on you and preserve your delicious O- blood (just chose that as an example because it's the most scrumptious) and freeze it and have a chilled juice squeezed out of you for my satiation. Trust me, I would never do that. Trust me.

But if I am having a jog, say, just strolling about one fine morning and I happen to see a cat by the roadside, bleeding badly, I would go over to it and assist it and call animal-care or whatever it is just like any other ordinary, sane human. But . . . not before I get a little sip of the blood.

Do you understand my problem now? I can't resist myself when there's blood around.

And any kind of blood at that, animal blood, human blood, blood with high or low glucose levels, on goes the menu. I just like me a good bout.

I can survive without it, unlike vampires. I'm a human (I think), guys, come on. I eat salad and bacon like any one of you and I don't scorch myself when I go out in sunlight. And you most definitely cannot kill me or banish me to hell by driving a stake through my heart or showing me a crucifix or anything.

Believe me, I would love for that to happen, what with all that's happened to me and because of me.

It just never does. That's my whole problem.

I just don't seem to . . . die.

Not permanently, at the very least.  Don't interrupt, I'm talking here. Where was I again?

Right. Can't die.

Even when I want to. And for those of you think that's dope, it's not. It's the opposite of dope, whatever that is.
I do age, though - at least I have, these last twelve years - so maybe time will be the bearer of my autopsy.

I do feel pain - again, vampires don't. I do.

Anyway, you understand my blood tribulation, right? In fact, it's got me into trouble loads of time.

There was this one time, in middle school, where this kid named - well, let's just call him Jason (side note: the names used throughout this thing will be fake, alright? Can't divulge certain things even to you, really sorry). Back to Jason.

Just to clarify, I was a kid back then too (still am, but you know what I mean). We studied in the same class, and I was thirsty then and whatnot. Anyhow, there were these jocks in our class, like I suppose there are in every class - you know the trundling, barrel-chested, we-don't-fear-a-zombie-apocalypse-because-we-have-no-brains kind of jocks who stick pencils up their noses to amuse themselves - they planted a compass on this Jason's seat right before he squatted down (yes, I said "squatted"; not a crime) and . . . well, let's just say it was a ghastly sight. The poor kid started bleeding from the butt and crying and yowling while the jocks roared with laughter and other, more sensible chaps - there was this one girl, with hair so ginger they might as well be on fire, who rushed so fast to help the guy she tripped over her own feet - were concerned.

As for me, I sat right next to Jason. And you already know about my weakness for blood, be it from whatsoever source.

I couldn't control myself. As I said, I was pretty thirsty. So . . . I leapt off my seat and onto crying Jason's bleeding spot . . . and before I knew it, I'd made the sight even uglier.

No sooner had I realized the mistake I had made, everyone started calling me a "Buttwipe". In the literal sense. I cooked a whole story to explain to the teachers that I was just trying to help him, that I had read somewhere in an intellectual article that sucking on compass-inflicted spots can help lessen the pain and whatever else rolled off my tongue.

After that incident, I tried to play safe and turn my heels whenever I saw blood anywhere. Still, I somehow caught myself up in a few more messy situations (don't ask me to elaborate, just don't), and ultimately, my parents decided it was better if I was home-schooled.

They know of my weakness. They also know I can't die, and a lot of weird tidbits about me. They are my parents, y'all.