Any Openings?

I'm weary of the human in me.
Can't I just be a vampire for a while,
centuries old, undead,
living in an old crumbling castle,
prowling for virgins
in the deep fog of
a Transylvania night.

I have a thousand things to do
about the house.
I work a boring job
that pays me little.
My wife nags me.
My so-called friends
only come around to borrow money.

Imagine peaceful days
in a coffin,
and nights scaling walls like a bat,
seducing with nothing more
than the red glare of eyes,
biting into fresh flesh,
slaking ancient thirst.

Tiny crucifixes in the face
are nothing compared
to the giant, heavy one
I bear on my back.
And I'd rather run from garlic any day
than sit for my wife's cooking.
What's the threat of a literal
stake through the heart
compared to a figurative plunge
a hundred times a day?

Get me out of here.
The kids are screaming.
The dog's barking.
And then there's
the phone, electric
and gas bill.
And I owe the IRS.
They want my blood,
though not in a good way.