A lot of people ask me what it’s like to be roommates with the undead.
A lot of people ask me what it’s like to be roommates with the undead, to be sharing all this headspace with. I say that the vampire takes too much time in the bathroom and that the werewolf sheds fur all over the place without bothering to pick up after him.
I say the goblins like to play cards in the middle of the night and almost always end up fighting; that the banshee watches soap operas on television twenty-four / seven and won’t stop crying. I say the ogres keep forgetting to leave the toilet seat down; that the bogeyman hides under my bed during thunderstorms; that the aswang leaves her legs at the foot of the stairs where anyone can trip over; that the poltergeist baby keeps throwing tantrums.
Sure, I say, some days it can have its perks. The bloodsucker lets me leech off his cable, and the warg is perfect for rainy nights when you’re in bed and don’t have clean socks. The kappa makes a mean vegetable curry. The troll keeps all the stray dogs and people away. The zombies are comparatively clean and tidy with the housework.
But then again, I say, it’s not as glamorous or as exciting as some have written it out to be, what with all the fur and the legs and the fighting and the television and the tantrums and the toilet seats.
And many of these people, the ones who ask, they’re always offended by my answers, like I’ve insulted them in some way.
But hey, I say. What can you do.
