I am morbid. Enough so to make my mother first laugh, then worry about me. A lot. Usually poking me with her toe at some point too. As, for whatever reason, I tend to be morbid while sitting on the floor.
This is why I am morbid:
"Keep your chin up!"
"Why? So that if anyone is trying to kill me my neck is more vulnerable to their lovely knives?"
"What are you up to, dear?"
"Dying. So are you. Wait... We died a little bit more. Oh, closer to death now! Closer, closer!!"
She says I used to be extremely optimistic. Like a little rainbow unicorn on happy pills. Ironic, since I wrote a poem about how unicorns are secretly these epic warriors who will slice your brains apart if you mess with them. When I was a wee lass I would skip around singing about how happy everything was - outside of bathtime. Then I wasn't any sort of happy at all until I had escaped the clutches of the Evil Mom who wanted me to Bathe. - and I would go around encouraging the butts off people. I's go up to random strangers and say "hello" and tell them what a good day it was.
"I'm not sure what happened to you, you weirdo," said The Mother of Niceness. I mean, I'm morbid, but I'm not that bad. I guess she just thinks it would be normal for an eighteen year old go skipping around trailing sparkles. Wait. No. I didn't say that. That would mean I would have to be a Meyer Vampire.
Oh, vampires. A four-year old the other day decided I was a Vampire. It was pretty adorable. Especially when he rolled up his sleeves, gave me this incredibly devilish grin, declared himself a werewolf and let me know he can bring it. And I did. Full-scale Vampire worthy tickle-attack. Then another person came in and he went running behind her squealing "Vampire! Vampire! Check the teeth!"
So, yup. I'm Little Miss Morbid Vampire over here.