Dr. Van Helsing, wherever you are, you might want to cover your ears.

I am about to reveal the worst enemy of the Vampire: boredom. Ennui. Existential despair.

No stake-wielding simpleton, no misguided vigilante armed with religious righteousness, no child orphaned by a blood orgy and nurtured by cold vengeance can induce even a fraction of the fear created by simple existence.

Imagine your own petty, miserable little lives — writ larger, of course — stretched across the unforgiving frame of immortality. Think of the mind-numbing routines you endure every day: waking early and crawling out of your, rumpled, sweat-stained bed, taking some meager breakfast — perhaps a poached egg — and then trudging to a job you despise. Now multiply that by infinity. Only instead of waking up early, I wake up late and crawl out of my satin-lined coffin. Instead of poaching an egg, I poach a late night jogger. And instead of shuffling off to a job, I prowl the night in search of, well, diversions; it’s a job of sorts but even that can grow tiresome.

Human or Vampire, routines become prisons and sadly, eventually those prisons become all too comfortable. It’s tragic really, and terminally depressing.

Boredom is a silent killer among my kind, which is ironic because we are typically very noisy killers. It’s the second most common cause of re-death, or lasting death as we call it. Number one is sunlight, then boredom, followed by stakes, other wood-related misfortunes, mansion fires and coffin rot, in that order.

It’s hard to shake loose from the grip of bored hopelessness once you realize eternity will last forever. Far too many Vampires choose the easy way out — solar suicide — rather than face another hundred years of the same damnable thing night after night. Not even romance can hold off the slow creep of despair. And by romance, I mean electric sex in a shimmering rainbow of fresh blood.

I was seeing a charming Vampire for the last two hundred years or so, but we drifted apart. I realized that the things he wanted — world domination, an army of evil acolytes, a coffin made of diamonds — just weren’t the things I wanted. I suppose the boredom got the better of me and eventually he just seemed tiresome and predictable. Would it unkill you to try something new once in awhile — not every meal has to involve some drugged young starlet wannabe from an all night rave. Be creative; just once let’s invade a home in the suburbs and pretend we’re humans while we drain a terrified family.

Keeping the romance alive, pun intended, becomes ridiculously hard under the pressure of all those years. The petty little resentments, unresolved, began to pile up. My kind jokes about the 100-year itch, but the laughter hides real tears. With the passing of time and forced obedience to quotidian (look it up, darlings) schedules, the things you want, the things you think you want, the things you think you need, become the bars in the prison of boredom, the mortgage on the home you can never leave.

Eventually, even when you do achieve them, even modestly — and yes, my recent paramour had his moment not that long ago, all except the precious coffin — you realize they weren’t enough and that starts changing you too. Then even your dreams become a source of boredom.

But what’s a girl to do? I’m far too fond of myself to ever seriously consider anything rash. And I still hold out hope of finding Mr. Wrong. Even though the many years have told me that happiness is fleeting at best — you can only count on it for a few decades at the very most — I still have to try and put myself out there.

And until I find him, or her, at least I can drown my sorrows in unhealthy food. Nothing like a little binge-eating to suppress all those bitter feelings and chase away the boredom. I’m in the mood for something shamefully rich and sugary. There’s a lovely Weight Watchers group that meets in the basement of the building across the way. I think I’ll drop in and eat until I get sick.как продвинуть сайт в поисковике