I have a powerful aversion to vampire lit. It repels me. Even thinking about it makes my blood tired. As soon as I realize that I am holding a book with a vampire theme, I shove it back on the shelf so fast it raises dust clots in the air. The name Ann Rice makes my stomach twist. How can entire novels be written about bizarre eating habits? This is not the same as my dislike of romance novels. I simply don't read them. End of story.
While flicking TV channels, the mere sight of bloody teeth sends me racing to the bathroom, fighting my body's strong urge to yakk up everything I have eaten for the past five years.
The one exception to this is the Count on Sesame Street. He is cute. His bats are cute. There is no blood. His fangs look more like a pointed overbite. I am as brave as the average three-year old, so he does not scare me. I just don't get the appeal of people slipping their fangs into other peoples' necks. I check mine all the time for suspicious marks. When my skin looks too pale, I worry. I adore sunlight. I cannot imagine that sleeping in a coffin is comfortable. And the capes... so heavy. Does this mean that I used to be a vampire and retain some degree of anxiety about relapsing? Is it even possible to be an ex-vampire, or is vampirehood a permanent condition? I believe the literature would have us think so. Not that I know because I don't read it.
I am not particularly squeamish otherwise. My doctor uncle once invited me to watch him remove an appendix, stipulating that if I had to faint, I should do it away from the table. I didn't. Plus, anyone who met some of the men I dated long ago would know without a doubt that I am not easily nauseated. Still, I worry. It's a good thing I like garlic.
