You have got to fucking be kidding me. Here’s this woman making so much fucking money off of vampires that you could swim in it—but these vampires? They’re too nice to suck blood, and instead of sustaining massive first degree burns, they get all sparkly and glittery like they’re going to the goddamned prom when they walk into the sun. Seriously?

Personally, I find it offensive. Is this what my people have been reduced to? Pretty boys, with perfectly-coifed hair and perfectly-sullen demeanor? Tell you the truth, if I saw these vampires I’d think they were on their way to a gay bar. Hey everyone, take off your shirts and dance in the glow of our own disco-ball-boys.

But I digress.

I have a task to perform tonight. An important task. A task that someone of my bullshit stature is suppose to deal with every 100 years. For the record, do you know how hard it is to remember a 100 year anniversary? I can tell you there aren’t many day planners that span a fucking century. Not that it’s been a hundred…well, you’ll see. I’m getting way ahead of myself.

Tonight, I’m sitting in this dark theatre at the 10 o’clock showing of the latest butchering of my family name, my new Pearl Izumis sticking to the overflow from the 7:30 show’s sugar orgy, waiting… watching… and choosing the next woman to be the Blood Goddess, or whatever we’re calling ourselves these days. I hate the word Goddess. It’s so fucking lame.

Maybe instead consider me the head of a sorority of sorts. Or more of a union, really. A group of working women, whose lot in life-or should that be death?-is to consume, well, the blood of humans. Us women got to stick together, you know? Look out for one another. Only difference is, you don’t get to apply or sign up for this job. This job seeks you out.

Take me. Thirty years ago to the day, this bitch jumps me while I’m walking home at night alone and oblivious and next thing you know—I don’t need my SPF 40 anymore. Pair of fucking expensive Ray Bans sitting on my nightstand, totally useless—you get me?

So there I am bleeding all over my blouse with this human leech attached to my neck, wondering what the hell is going on, and this chick tells me her name’s Sisi (Isis backwards, how fucking original) and then she looks me in the eye and gets all sappy, telling me I am special and chosen. Chosen? What the fuck? How about if you choose to pay my dry cleaning bill? I’m on a college budget, you know? And while you’re doing that I’ll choose to file some charges on your crazy ass.

Bitch ignores me completely. Just hands me a statue of some gummi-bear-looking thing, and calmly tells me not only am I stuck at ripe old age of 22, for all of eternity by the way, but for the next 100 years I have some sort of duty to the women that came before and to the women that will be made after to organize, protect, serve. I am the leader of this shitty organization. I’m like, what? No, no. I’m no leader. I can’t organize dick. In fact, I’m a fucking art major, okay? Find some Poli-Sci or Law major! Lady, you got the wrong girl here.

Sisi tells me the organization’s history, takes a while, but, hey, apparently I’ve got tons of time. Oh, and not like I can leave, because she’s done some crazy shit with that statue and my feet are literally stuck to the cement. I mean, like, when I pick up my feet they won’t move, that kind of stuck. What this freak doesn’t tell me—what I have to figure out for my goddamn self when diet after diet does nothing—is that I’m stuck with the “freshmen 20” (okay, “freshman 50”, more like it) that I gained from beer and bad dorm food. Yep, that’s right. I’m an overweight vamp. Who the fuck has ever seen a fat vampire? See, we can’t change after we are made. No Jenny Craig, no Weight Watchers, no sucking on some super model who desperately needs a sandwich. Nope, just me, the fatty. Son of a bitch.

So tonight, I pick the next to lead us. And yeah, if you’re doing the math, I am a little early—70 years early, actually—but I’ve had enough of this bullshit to last a lifetime, let alone an eternity. I will pass on my title as the Blood Goddess and consider taking a long, long vacation. According to this dumbass movie, Seattle is cloud-covered and vamp friendly. Maybe I’ll go there. Though I don’t see any fat vampires in the mix, that’s for sure.

I wait, I watch, I choose. The movie is done, and I know I have eternity, but I want two hours of my life back after that piece of garbage. Anyway then my chosen one gets up to leave. She’s a goth girl, a loner. Skinny, too. Probably on Team Edward. Figure I’ll mix things up a bit. I stay a close distance behind her as she leaves and follow her down the street. I got the perfect girl, near a perfect abandoned location and what does she do? She goes into Starbucks. I HATE COFFEE. I look at her through the window, oh, please please please order tea. Son of bitch! No such luck. She got one of those mocha-lotto-choco foamy concoctions. She is going to taste like java and keep me up all day. This is bullshit. I start wondering if I should pick somebody else. I mean, I really hate coffee.

Suddenly, I know my maker—or destroyer, or whatever—is behind me. Damn it. I was afraid this was going to happen. I face her and ask why she’s not out eating small children or something, but Sisi does not find my sarcasm funny and definitely doesn’t appear happy with my planned mini rebellion. She’s one of these fucking hippie earth mother types, no sense of humor. She tells me the title cannot be passed until the 100th year, tradition and the natural laws, and I’d been chosen by my elders, wasn’t I honored, well if not it was just too bad bla bla bla bla bla. Then she’s gone, with a rush of air and a slight hint of patchouli still hanging in the space she’s left.

Looks like I’ll have to wait a little longer. I look down at the Blood Goddess statue in my hand whose empty eyes stare back at me and say, “What the hell are you looking at?” I put the little slice of hell back in my pocket and know I can wait. I’ve gotten pretty good at that already. But not any 70 damn years, I’ll tell you that much.

Lori L. Richards, born and raised in Maryland, has always had a lot of stuff going on in the right side of her head. Aspired to be a starving artist but realized quickly money does make one happier. Was valedictorian at Maryland College of Art and Design and has worked as a graphic designer forever, but for the record should have been rich and famous. Lives with and loves dearly her partner of 22 years.