If I Were a Vampire

If I were a vampire, I think I’d be better off.

I’d no longer complain about being cold because the lack of circulating blood would make being cold my natural resting state. My roommate wouldn’t have to fight me on the temperature of our apartment anymore. I could shed the ever-present quilt around my shoulders — a formerly protective shield that has morphed into a second skin. 

Plus I could still terrorize friends with my deathly cold hands, just without having to endure my usual discomfort of goosebumps and shivers.

Score!

If I were a vampire, I’d have an excuse not to go to class.

“Dear Professor,” I’d write in an email. “I can’t attend the lecture today because the crucifix above the classroom door blisters my skin. Will discuss more at office hours.”

I expect they’d reply humbly, overwhelmed by the power of my monstrous, awe-inspiring form.

“Don’t worry yourself with the trifling responsibility of attendance, Catherine,” my professor would write back. “The fathomless abyss of your blood-hungry lust strikes a piercing fear in my heart. I have awarded you with an A — no need to return to class.”

I’d be the first vampire to graduate summa cum laude, probably.

If I were a vampire, I likely would’ve been able to bypass my many excruciating years of orthodontics.

It must be hard to wrangle fangs into the tortuous straight lacing of braces or the mechanical locking of the Herbst appliance. My fangs would puncture the dental impression tray before I’d even have a chance to gag on the garishly-colored putty. 

This isn’t an invitation for orthodontists to accommodate vampires in their practices — I’d like to avoid a second round of dental work when I’m a vampire, if possible.

If I were a vampire, I’d vampirize Stephanie Mabey’s “If I Were a Zombie” to roaring success.

To top it all off, I’d shock everyone with the execution of a blood-sucking rampage at my sold-out Madison Square Garden show.

Every major news headline would be about me, but I’d remain modest, only signing a few autographs before going into hiding.

My immortality would curse me to remain underground for decades — or at least until my name dropped from the public’s scrutiny. I’d eventually reemerge, painted with a new face, body and hair. 

In my second go at life as a vampire, I wouldn’t play any games. I’d jump immediately into terrorizing the world, building a legion of vampire soldiers and forcing humans to bow before my throne. The very mention of my name would strike fear into the hearts of all. I’d file my nails into points and dress exclusively in black and red. 

My reign would be one for the history books. I’d be known colloquially as Catherine the Cruel.

The fall of the Meyer Empire would unfold brutally — a vicious battle between monster and man, ending with a stake to my heart. The last whisper of my soul would depart from this earthly realm. My killer would be lauded as a savior, and my death praised as the greatest triumph of humanity over evil.

But this is all just a pipe dream — if only I were a vampire.