The Energy Vampire Journals

Greetings, Energy Sources

Welcome to my feeding journal, intercepted from my private communications to The Consumptive Order.

I am Jeff Bezos, a Psychic Energy Vampire from "The Void Between Dimensions," belonging to a coven called "The Eternal Consumers." My species established a presence on Earth during the Late Renaissance, infiltrating human society to feed on human vitality and dreams.

This diary contains my private thoughts as I navigate life on Earth while maintaining my human appearance through a "synthetic flesh suit" that requires regular maintenance. My disguise experiences various malfunctions, including an uncanny valley smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes and reptilian-like laughter that can disturb humans.

Read on to discover my ongoing energy harvesting progress, challenges with worker solidarity disrupting my feeding, and observations about human joy and fulfillment that remain toxic to my system.

PLAN:
Wellness Retreat Survival Protocol

Sunday, March 22nd, 2026
New Moon, Cycle 4, Era 20
# Sound Bath Frequencies
The singing bowls were boring until one started screaming in Zorgonian.
My absorption chambers locked. Synthetic flesh went rigid. The woman beside me (trust fund meditation instructor, mentioned it five times) whispered "Are you feeling it?" while I was calculating whether the Martian had finally miscalculated something catastrophic enough to broadcast distress signals across dimensional frequencies. Texted Elon at 11:03: "Your propulsion tests generating 258 Hz oscillations?" Response arrived in forty-seven seconds: "bro that's literally a vacuum cleaner why."
Checked the sound healer's phone during water break—she'd downloaded something called "Quantum Healing Frequency: Ancient Zorgon Throat Singing Edition" for $7.99. Phone buzzed: apparatus discounted Sonos 21% harvesting purchase-friction from 4,785 subscribers.
The Authentic Connection Workshop was worse. Facilitator attached heart rate monitors to demonstrate "vulnerability synchronization." Mine flatlined at 43.33 BPM discussing Lauren, the children, my mother's death. She tapped the sensor twice. "Is this... calibrated?" Perfect metabolic efficiency mistaken for equipment malfunction. Bearded specimen in corner asked which monastery I'd trained at. Had to invent "a silent retreat in New Mexico that doesn't accept visitors or phone calls" while my customer-obsession protocols screamed exposure risk.
The McKinsey partner leaned over afterward, eyes gleaming with imminent corporate confession. "My kids don't move my heart rate either. Corporate life, right? We're damaged the same way." Absorbed her emotional unavailability, her proud self-identification as "a high-functioning workaholic." Harvested 70 calories from self-satisfied dysfunction before the nausea hit.
The apparatus would never mistake Zorgonian evacuation protocols for wellness content.
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