It's 3 o'clock in the morning, I'm covered in someone else's blood and typing this on an ancient PC in the backroom of
the Ophelia Club because my previously impervious diary has been breached by my sister. She even broke my code enough to tell
Mum about the midnight back alley fights and ice cream escapades, so as soon as I get home I'm grounded. I'll be as flightless
as a penguin and about as good as getting away from that killer whale otherwise known as my bloodkin, Dove.
This is all Phoebe's fault.
Well, maybe it's not all her fault, she couldn't possibly have known about the how to break my Chandler-code
to tell Dove, but a lot of it is. So she didn't meant to be so good at the Hunt. So she didn't mean to gain
the ability to kick even Buffy's arse, assuming that Buffy was real and not the brilliant creation of Joss-the-fallen-idol-Whedon.
So she didn't mean to reduce an eleven-foot mountain troll called Boulder to a quivering mess, begging for mercy,
in six and a half minutes. She did though.
Even without a weapon, she's that good.
With or without a weapon, she's that much trouble too.
Now I'm stuck trying to explain to my family and friends why exactly we spend all our time together but still fight like panther
and particularly swift capuchin monkey, come back late at night bruised and sweaty but smiling, keep my baby cousin Juliet
with us at all possible times and have a friend code-named "He-Who-Needs-A-New-Nickname" (abbreviated to "The Other One")
that no-one else ever gets to meet. The only upside is that they now think I'm some kind of irresistible chica-magnet, which
I regret to admit is far from the truth.
Still, things could be worse. The Other One, my other best friend whom we currently call Stoker, does manage to
keep a good supply of chocolate ice-cream in at all times and there isn't that much that a massive bowl of Ben & Jerry's
can't fix.
Except perhaps diabetes.
Later.
This is not a blog. That would require endless detail about the bands I like, who my current obsessions are and the minutiae
of life in my high school / office / tree in Yellowstone / cafe in Liechtenstein / Canada. Think of it more
as an intermittent record of events for posterity. Assuming I live that long. Stoker's dead and so will I be if Phoebe
ever finds this site. He doesn't let it get him down though. 400 years and he's still kicking, arse specifically though
he does like to get a few good blows in to the solar plexus.
Vampirism isn't so bad when it's joined to a good soul. I firmly emphasise the "good" here. Vampires are inherently
evil from the human perspective as they're the next step up on the food chain. I'm sure that penguins feel the same way about
Orcas. Stoker has a good soul, one I think is probably his own, and it's human, not that that means much. There have
been 47 vampires in existence with human souls and at least 3 of them never had any problems with eating people. Stoker s
not one of them. Just to be sure, Stoker makes me keep a cross, bottle of holy water and large stake near my computer
at all times. The garlic bread is all for me, though everyone else eats it when it's made.
