The thrill of shadows

I very much love my Beasty.  We compliment each other in so many ways (not all of then good, but what can you do).  When he and I said our vows last year, I have never felt more sure about my profession of love and devotion to another.  Half meant I-love-you's and broken promises of past relationships were swept away and forgotten in the burning truth of the words spoken as we held hands before our gathered friends and family.

That said - there will always be a tiny part of me waiting for my dark, vampiric prince to come.  It's not that I want to be taken away from Beasty.  It's just that it was supposed to have happened by now, and every once in a while after listening to certain songs or watching certain movies, I wonder why his undead ass hasn't shown up yet.  Granted, I'm not the pale, waning ingenue from most of these songs and movies, but I'm still pretty sexy in my own right.  And I'm pale.  Unless I've been visiting my father in Florida.  But even then, that's usually just my shoulders and arms, the rest of me is still pretty damn pale.

Oh, dear minions, what can you do?  The little gothy core of my heart will always be waiting for young Gary Oldman to show up on my back porch in Victorian finery on a particularly stormy night.  Or something like that.  My fascination with vampires has waxed and waned over the years, and even though it's been heartily threatened by the drivel that is teenage supernatural romance, it never completely goes away.  I even (dare I admit it) began to write my own vampire novel, though I need more practice at building suspense and a sense of horror.  Because vampires should be scary, dammit.

And on that note, I'm going to return to building my vampiric playlist.  It's not very long at the moment, and I'm having trouble tracking down an mp3 of Dark Lover by Tempest.

I leave you with the following eye-candy.

Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula, 1992.