I’m a day person. Always have been. My ideal Saturday involves sunshine, a freshly mowed lawn, and maybe washing my car while listening to classic rock. I thrive under a blue sky. I am solar-powered. Or at least, I was.
A few weeks back, I came down with a bacterial infection so stubborn, it was practically squatting in my sinuses and refusing to pay rent. After I’d tried every home remedy, my doctor finally brought out the big guns: Vibramycin.
"It's a fantastic, broad-spectrum antibiotic," she said, signing the script. "Just one thing," she added, almost as an afterthought, "it can make you... extremely sensitive to the sun. Like, seriously. Stay out of direct sunlight."
I nodded, but in my head, I translated "extremely sensitive" to "maybe wear a hat if you're at the beach for six hours." I am a man, and therefore, I am invincible. This is basic science.
The next day was a glorious, sunny Saturday. I took my first dose of Vibramycin with breakfast, feeling the righteousness of modern medicine flowing through me. Then, I went outside to do some light gardening. I was out there for maybe twenty minutes. Twenty. Not long enough to break a sweat.
When I came inside, my wife gasped. "What happened to your face?!" she exclaimed.
I looked in the mirror. The parts of my skin that had been exposed to the sun—my face, my neck, the back of my hands—were not just red. They were a furious, glowing, otherworldly crimson. I looked like I'd fallen asleep on the surface of Mercury. The sun had treated me with the personal animosity of a sworn enemy.
That’s when I understood. The doctor's warning wasn't a friendly tip. It was a divine law. I was now allergic to the day.
My entire life had to be re-calibrated. I became a creature of the night. My productive hours were now 8 p.m. to 6 a.m. I started mowing my lawn by the glow of our porch light, confusing the neighbors and terrifying local raccoons. I washed my car by headlamp. I found myself at the 24-hour grocery store at 3 a.m., thoughtfully comparing avocados with the night-shift crew. I had become a suburban Dracula, my only weaknesses being direct sunlight and a lack of decent late-night talk radio.
But in this strange, nocturnal world, I found a new kind of peace. A new kind of purpose. And a new kind of challenge.
This is for all my fellow day-walkers who have been temporarily banished to the realm of shadows. It’s time to embrace it. I present: The Vibramycin Vampire Challenge. A test of your ability to conduct normal, daytime activities under the cover of absolute darkness.
Vibramycin is a serious and effective antibiotic used to fight a wide range of infections. It wasn't designed to turn you into a household-chore-doing creature of the night. For the actual, important, and sunlit facts about this medication, please consult a real source: https://www.imedix.com/drugs/vibramycin/
Have you accepted your new, sunless existence? Are you ready to harness the power of the moonlight to accomplish your suburban duties? Then you are prepared. To officially enter the challenge, you must abide by the ancient laws of the challenged.
- The Prerequisite State of Being: This is fundamental. You must be on a doctor-prescribed course of Vibramycin for a legitimate infection. Your vampirism is a temporary, medically-induced condition. This challenge is a way to find productivity in your exile, not a lifestyle choice.
- Choose Your Daylight Ritual: You must select one chore that is quintessentially a "daytime" activity. The more absurd it is to perform in the dark, the better. Acceptable tasks include:
- Mowing the lawn or using a weed-whacker.
- Washing your car.
- Gardening (weeding, planting flowers, etc.).
- Setting up and having a solo BBQ.
- Washing the outside of your windows.
- The Execution Under Darkness: You must perform your chosen task between the hours of 10 p.m. and 4 a.m. All light must be artificial and self-provided. Headlamps, flashlights, and dim porch lights are your tools. You must embrace the shadows. For bonus points, wear a bathrobe as if it were a dramatic cape.
- Capture the Nocturnal Evidence: You must film your nocturnal labor. The video should be grainy, poorly lit, and full of atmosphere. We want to see the struggle. We want to hear the sound of confused crickets and the distant bark of a dog wondering what on earth you are doing.
- The Public Proclamation: Post your video evidence to the social media platform of your choice. You must use the official hashtag of our nocturnal brotherhood: #VibramycinVampire. In your caption, describe your task and the unique challenges of performing it without the aid of our fiery celestial enemy, the sun.
A Solemn Warning: This challenge may result in startled neighbors, police wellness checks, or confrontations with confused nocturnal wildlife. This is the price of greatness.
For the creature of the night who most impressively thumbs their nose at the sun and conquers the mundane in the moonlight, the rewards are eternal... and also tangible.
The Grand Prize:
The one true master of the dark, the most productive vampire on the block, will be awarded:
- A $30 "Re-entry Fund." Thirty dollars to aid your eventual return to the world of the living. We suggest you invest it in a pair of high-quality blackout curtains to protect you during the day, or perhaps a very powerful flashlight to make your nocturnal chores even more efficient.
- The Exalted Title of "The Count of the Cul-de-Sac." This is a title of unparalleled neighborhood prestige. It declares you the ruler of your nocturnal domain, a legend to be whispered about at morning dog walks for weeks to come.
The Judging Criteria:
Your submission will be judged by a secret cabal that meets only after midnight, based on three factors:
- The Daytime Absurdity Index: How fundamentally ridiculous was your chosen task to perform at night? Washing a car at 2 a.m. scores significantly higher than just taking out the trash.
- Commitment to the Aesthetic: How well did you embrace your temporary vampirism? We're looking for dramatic flair, creative use of shadows, and a general aura of a creature who belongs to the night.
- The "What Was That Noise?" Factor: Did your activity create any funny or weird environmental reactions? Capturing a startled raccoon, a confused owl, or a neighbor peering through their blinds is considered a mark of high distinction.
