So I'm Not a Vampire?

So... I'm pretty sure I'm a vampire. I'm not going to jump the gun and declare myself a blood-sucking, night-walking, sun-hating vamp just yet, but I'd bet my last bar of chocolate I'm right.

See, at the moment, I'm laying on this super, tacky metal slab freezing my--if I was a man--balls off, with this scratchy, washed-way-too-many-times sheet over top of me. Oh, and I'm butt naked. Now, I've seen about a ba-gillion crime shows and I'm almost positive--not going to throw all my eggs in a basket here--that I'm in a morgue. Just one more thing that proves my whole vampire theory.

But I guess you're properly wondering "why was your first thought vamp?" The main reason: I died. I'm one hundred and ten percent positive about this one. You see, it all began at my super, duper, hot-- now--ex-boyfriends house. Me, being the cute and sincere girlfriend I am, decided to bake a batch of brownies and take it over to his place. Did we (mainly I, since both we both know I always end up eating two-thirds of the little pieces of chocolate heaven) really need brownies? Hell no! I was, well... am, pushing a size sixteen, and my long, bottle-red hair just ain't covering up that double chin anymore.

Getting back on track, I brought brownies. Rob and I had been dating for about two years, give or take a month--which in my mind is six months too long without a commitment of either shared living quarters or a ring. But I'm a patient girl, and I thought Rob was worth it. He had this whole cute boy-next-door thing going on, and was just a little wilder cause he had a motorcycle. Did he ride it? No, but he had it, and that was all that counted.

Again, I'm getting off topic. I do that a lot. My mom says I have ADD, but she acts the same way so I think it's more genetic than anything. Some parents share hair color with their kids, my mother and I share a short attention span.

But back to the reason I'm pretty sure I'm a vampire and one hundred percent sure I'm dead. I went to see my boyfriend, yada, yada. Brought brownies, yada, yada. Caught him fucking the Chinese take-out man--

Oh, wait! I didn't get to that part yet. Yup, I found my boyfriend ass up, taking it from behind, while our Chinese take-out guy rammed a pretty impressive piece of equipment in his ass. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I hate to be one of those people, but I really would have preferred to see my boyfriend with his dick in a size negative one, supermodel chick instead of the way I caught him. It wasn't just a blow to my self-esteem, but also a blow to my womanhood. There's nothing like seeing your boyfriend getting the business from another dude to remind you of that extra muffin you ate, and the few extra pounds you'd put on lately.

I, being the entirely rational person I am, stood there and screamed my head off like a banshee. Of course, Rob heard, but instead of getting limp and having his dick fall off as it should have, he came. That about sealed the deal for me. I turned in a whirl of neon pink skirts and marched out the front door. But at the front steps, I realized I still held the freaking brownies in my hands, and instead of just taking them with me, I decided to chucked them while I took a step. Clumsy me stepped wrong in my matching neon, kitten heels, turned awkwardly on my ankle, fell, and cracked my head on the pavement in front of his house.

All I remember is a hazy feeling of pain, my ears ringing, and then darkness. I also think I remember seeing blood, but it just could have been a distorted image of my pink dress, because I'm pretty sure the thing had flown up and I was flashing God and everyone.

So, here I am, laying in what I assume is a morgue with a very fresh memory of my death; my very humiliating, very embarrassing death. I just hope Rob lied to my parents and whoever came to collect my body, and made up some believable story about how we were having passionate sex in front of his house, and he was just soooo good that I came and died. Now that is a death I can get behind.

Got sidetracked again. Silly little Peaches. Oh, right, I totally forgot to tell you my name, it's Peaches. Well, my nickname is Peaches, but my real name is Georgia Kent. In grade school my grandma used to come and pinch my cheeks and say: "chubby little cheeks, just like a peach, and good enough to eat." From that moment on I was ridiculed and my nickname became Peaches.

Now, I'm Peaches the Vampire. Wow does that sound stupid and wrong. But I mean, what other explanation is there to my sudden rebirth in a morgue. Scenario one is that the brownies I may have 'sampled' on my way to Rob's house were contaminated, and I was now a zombie. Only thing wrong with that scenario, was I didn't smell myself decompressing, I could form complete thoughts, and I was craving chocolate, not brains.

Scenario two would be that I'm in a coma. This one I could maybe get, if I didn't feel fucking, freezing cold--I mean like Hell's probably warmer the little box I was in. And why would I imagine myself in a morgue if I were in a coma? That didn't make any sense. Plus, I read somewhere that people in a coma don't dream, and it doesn't really feel like a dream but cold, harsh reality.

Option three--which is the one I'm sticking with until someone, or something, proves me wrong--is that I'm a vampire. Fact: I got a mosquito bite two weeks ago that hasn't gone away. Maybe it wasn't a mosquito bite but, like, a vampire bite. And, aside from the whole zombie thing, I don't know any other creature who can come back to life, Frankenstein excluded.

Then there's the possibility that I could still be alive, but the paramedics must have been really stupid if that's the case. With all the technology we have, I find it un-be-lievable that they wouldn't have made, damn sure I was six feet under before the placed me in a morgue in preparation to be put, well, six feet under.

You know, Peaches the Vampire is starting to grow on me. Has that sort of epic quality like Dracula or other vampires I can't think of right now. Vampire Peaches. Yeah, I can get behind that.