vampire weekend (thursday)

“Where the fuck is the show”
My boots are slick with composting leaf litter, and there’s sticky red blood cooling and crisping up on my skin. I’m hanging off someone’s shoulders as we stumble through the woods, and our group of confused, drunk, gothy teens is growing exponentially. We light my last cigarette. I’m getting better at sucking them down without coughing– I never expected them to be harsher to smoke than bud.
An hour ago, I was in a lecture about American interests in the Middle East, nodding sagely when we talked about faraway things like “Bill Clinton”, “Desert Storm”, and a “New World Order”. My college life balancing act. Glittery eyeshadow smudged onto my notebooks. Stashing my backpack under the stage. Study more than you party, yeah? Isn’t that what people say?
We’re late, of course, because we always are. E is still on her way over to my house while B and I are taking pickleback shots in the kitchen. It’s getting harder to maneuver the giant bottle of bottom shelf vodka into the tiny glass without spilling it all over the counter. Basically rubbing alcohol cleaner, right? I’m sure it’s fine. E doesn’t have a costume, so we acquiesce to a couple half shots while she speedruns her pregame, and we head upstairs to cycle through my closet. My roommate is trying to finish her math homework on her bed. Sorry! We’ll be out of your hair soon. I have just about every shirt in red or black laid out on my bed, and I’m trying to drip fake blood artfully with all the coordination I can muster while E’s outfit takes shape behind me. We’re late as fuck! The music started 15 minutes ago! Vampire music for the vampire show, B. We can’t miss it, c’mon.

So there’s sticky red blood cooling and crisping on my skin, right? And the dirt starts to feel like it’s a heartbeat pulsing as the speakers push a boomboomBUMbumboomboomBUM. Vampire rave! It’s a rave!!! The lights are strobing red, and I’m pretty sure we could get in without paying if we play our cards right, don’t you think? Where’s my journalist pass?
Anyway, I beeline for the ticketman with the giant bat wings, and so we talk about his wings, and his boyfriend-husband, and student debt, and zodiacs. I’m charming his face off. Or not! He thinks B and I are on molly. It’s a mission success though because somewhere in the 20 minutes of chatter, he must have forgotten about the money, so we walk right on through and I feel like I just won olympic gold in socializing with strangers.
I’m riding on that high when I waltz myself and my platform boots right up to a kid with big hair and a shirt that reads: JESUS IS A CUNT. I’m in the middle of complimenting that, when I notice mx. 6 foot tall goth with their heart bangs cemented to their forehead, and maybe it’s the nun outfit or my physical state, but I have to be friends with these people. So I wheedle out that we’re both homestuck fans and yes, I would love to see your art, so you should give me your instagram, and of course I’ll text you. I’m off again!

People are leaving already, and we just really got here. I tell the girl I sat next to in my class this morning that I’m sorry I missed her, and I’ll see her on Tuesday, and I do know your friend, they were in my classes last term!
I’m sure it’s cold outside, but I’m dancing hard, and my head is fuzzy, so it’s never mattered less. It starts raining for a second, but we’re vampires, not witches from Oz, we won’t melt. There’s a tent over the computer, and my mascara is waterproof. I’m young and for the most part I bounce back when I fall on my ass. For the most part we’ll party like we’re dying, and live anyway.

The moments in between, breathing heavy in the corner, our own world goes quiet because I’m thinking about doing things I’ll most likely regret. Your song in my head is louder than any of the shit happening behind us, because it’s that stupidly catchy RHCP bassline, and it’s all about you in sunny LA, your star sunglasses, sand on your mother’s floor. October is bullshit, I’ve decided, because it’s not that weekend in August.
“Come put your ash in my tray.”
“I love [you], I need [you].”
“[You] lie, and that’s my type; I wish that I could hold [you].”
“Tell me, have you seen her?”
There are other songs too, that make me think about you, and none of them are playing tonight.
“I used to believe no one could love you like I do; and I’m starting to think that it might be impossible not to.”
It must be impossible not to, because you’re back in the crowd, and your boyfriend’s hands are on your hips, kissing you. It usually doesn’t get to me, but tonight you’re wearing my sweater, and you’re sucking all the blood outta my heart with that toothy smile, and I’m thinking about that stupid song so–
Shake it off. B leaves early to sleep, everyone else is reaching the end of their rope, I’m playing wingman for E, and I’m fucking sobering up. There’s nothing left in the bottle we brought, so I’m turning it on again for the bitches with the joint standing circular like they’re too cool to dance. I find a pretty girl to talk to. I smile a lot. I wish you were here. Sometimes I think you do get jealous, but it’s worse to cling onto that than to pretend you don’t see it at all, my puppydog eyes when I’ve lost all my inhibitions, silently begging, begging.

I get drunk on dancing. My hands waving in front of the strobe lights are like silky moth wings, I think. Ephemeral and delicate and not really there. I’m so sweaty now that I know no one’s thinking of taking me home tonight. Yeah, let me pant my picklejuice breath into your open mouth. Who doesn’t want that?
E and I decide to leave before the police sirens we keep hearing become a problem. She and this guy have been chatting for so long I’m shocked she’s walking home with me at all. The fog dissipates from a couple feet of distance, and I see our little hedonistic lair for what it is: 20-odd people on a basketball court.
Now, it’s definitely cold.
Out of the vampire’s den, from 2 AM to 3, I take 666 steps.