Life was going so well for me. I believed I was a two hundred and fifty-nine-five-year-old Hollywood handsome vampire, never suffering from the ennui of so
many of my bloodsucking pals and living the life of Reily or viviendo la vida if he spoke Spanish, when I stumble over a stupid subway grating on East Thirty-Fifth
steps away from Madison Avenue and my apartment, like some clumsy old fogey who doesn't have an immortal trip advisor installed, and hit my supposedly impenetrable headset
silly and lose all memory of who I am. And that changed everything.

Holies of Molies, I know the God of the Old Testament divided light from darkness, but first turning me into El Supremo Vampire and giving me a taste of life everlasting
and then pulling my feet from under me and turning me back to Inferioroso Humano is one mortal coil too many and not something to give one a funny face.

I'm not bitter, mind you. Okay, I may be a little. And, all righty, perhaps the world is a safer place with one less vampire sucking the blood out of some innocent woman.
That's right. I'm straight and proud of it, although back in 1765—we'll leave my last tête te neck with Napoleon for the yet-to-be-written chapter in my tell-all
Famous Necks I Have Known. (I am writing something else, but more on that later.)

Let's get back in a hurry, Murray, to my anger issues. Oh, what? Do you think vampires are above it all? No, no, and no. Just like real folks, we get pissed-silly
when we lose our baby fangs and don't find any money under our pillow. And boy, was I perturbed when I finally found out how fucked I was when I became
a monster without being a myth.

I love that word, don't you? No, not fucked, although I love that word too. Perturbed. It sounds like something Shakespeare would say when being messed about.