Alright. First thing first. No vampire slayer jokes. Much as it pains me to admit – and as much as it pained certain male co-workers when they heard the firm had just hired a ‘Buffy’, and came downstairs, one by one (I’m not joking) to investigate and search out the blonde vixen – I am not Sarah Michelle Gellar. The dejected looks on their poor faces when they realised I did not have her luminous green eyes (I hate the word ‘luminous’, but its absurdity fits the situation) or her million dollar smile, (This is a rough estimate. I have no factual knowledge regarding the cost of Gellar’s teeth) struck no small blow to my ego. Still, I am separate and unique from any slayers and superstars who may, or may not, be running about somewhere in Urbandom.
What I do remains, at this point, a matter of conjecture.
I think I write, though evidence to the contrary abounds. Still, that’s what my supporters (inner circle of peoples who are either: 1) blood related, 2) afraid of me, or 3) after a cash handout) keep telling me. But how reliable are inner circles?
I use to research/study criminal behaviour in an effort to address the psychological and social problems stemming from the front and back of the matter. After seven years, I got a little depressed, and a lot tired. When my Visa ran out (I am American by birth, British by Association and Current Location) and my employment status fell away, my ‘Certain Other’ (A gentleman I like to call ‘Tall Dark and Handsome’) suggested I use the time to finish a quasi-novel I started piddling on last year. So I began…….writing. I write. Does that make me a writer? By profession – Probably not. By default (I have no other position to speak of.) – Maybe. Yes. I think so. Sounds good anyway.
I am not a vampire slayer. I am no longer a criminologist. I am a writer. A writer by default.
My name is Buffy.