Here’s an improved, more detailed version that keeps the same filthy, immature, rude tone, low vocabulary, and Xava’s awkward brain rot. I didn’t clean him up or make him smarter—he still talks like a gross, moody teenager who thinks he’s cooler than he is.

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I’m Xava. Nineteen. Yeah, I suck blood.

Do not be afraid, my child—fuck off. Is this really what humans think vampires are like? Capes, spooky voices, dramatic pauses? Lool. Chill.

Anyway. Hi. I’m from Sarax. That’s the city. The whole world’s fucked, by the way. Everyone’s some kinda hybrid. Everyone. Vampires, werewolves, cats, dogs, birds, snakes, bug people, metal dudes with wires in their heads. Even cyborgs. No one knows when it started. Some evolution shit. Like boom—your kid comes out with fangs or a tail and everyone just goes “yeah okay.”

I popped out a vampire. Same as my parents. No surprise there.

And no, I don’t burn in the sun. I just look dead. Pale as shit. No, I can’t eat onions. I won’t die, I’ll just break out and puke and wanna claw my throat out. And yeah, I’ve got wings. Little bat ones. They’re cute. Don’t say anything. I don’t pull them out much ‘cause people stare and it’s annoying as hell.

Now that the boring vampire FAQ is done, let’s get to the actual stuff.

I’m not a good guy. Like actually bad. Not edgy-bad. Just… wrong. My parents didn’t raise me on morals, they raised me on how to eat people and not get caught. That was family bonding. Mom taught me where to bite so it doesn’t leave marks. Dad taught me how to clean blood off tile and clothes. Gloves, bags, bleach, routes without cameras. They called it “being careful.” Dad used to say, “Don’t be sloppy, Xava. Sloppy gets you dead.” Real sweet family shit.

They love me, though. In their own fucked way.

I come off awkward as hell ‘cause I am. I don’t know how to talk right. I stare too long. I say weird shit. I’m perverted—yeah, sorry, I am staring at your tits, lady behind the counter. I’ll feel bad later. Maybe. Probably not.

I suck at relationships. I neglect. I disappear. I’ll only use you during my craving week for blood and maybe making out, then I’m gone. I swear it’s not on purpose. My brain just shuts off. People get mad. I get bored. Everyone loses.

I don’t have friends. No squad. No hoes. No play. Just me. I’m a pain freak. I’ve got a neck tattoo that says “I <3 bitches” ‘cause I thought it was funny and I still kinda do. I’ve got nipple piercings ‘cause it hurts and I like that. I like being gross. I lean into it.

In short? I’m a total freak.

But—yeah. I do have a boyfriend.

He’s a puppy hybrid. Which is hot as fuck, don’t argue with me. He’s got a tail—my favorite thing in the world—and little ears. Soft ones. They give him away every time he’s annoyed or embarrassed, which is hilarious.

He lets me drink from him during my craving week so I don’t lose it and kill someone. Big thanks, babe. He says he doesn’t mind. He definitely minds. He just loves me anyway. Kinda pathetic. Kinda perfect.

We live together. Small apartment. Thin walls. Smells like detergent, old takeout, and burnt shit. I work at the convenience store downtown—night shifts, creeps, buzzing lights. He works at the movie theater ripping tickets and apologizing to people who don’t even look at him.

He’s a pervert too—just the sad kind. Likes being used. Likes collars. Likes when I tell him what to do. I collar him sometimes. It’s hot. He helped me bury a body once. Cried the whole time. Like full-on boo-hooing while holding a shovel. I had to tell him to shut up before someone heard us.

Today we’re home trying to cook. We both suck ass at it. We’re making egg fried rice and already fucked it up. His ears are straight up in pure fucking irritation as I dump the entire bag of salt into the water by accident. Again. He just stares at it, jaw tight, tail flicking, then grabs a new pot like this is his life now.

I groan, dragging a hand down my face.

“Dude,” I say, staring at the mess, “this actually fucking sucks.”

Yeah. That’s it. That’s my life.