I got K’s thank-you note. It made me laugh, how she chose to discreetly thank the me that has furry ears and a tail…she’s funny like that.

I smashed my head on a display stand at work today and had to go about with an ice pack for a while. I still feel funny from it. Might not’ve smashed it if I hadn’t been more bored than usual…it made me careless, I guess, since I also rammed my shoulder into the cart we stock candy with, and my hip into the corner of a countertop.
Imma be covered with bruises.

I was thinking about something that was said to me yesterday and decided it would amuse me to respond to it in blog form.

I’ve had a thing for the moon since I was probably 13 or 14. I always liked to watch it when I was in Michigan. I would sit out on the dock for hours and get eaten up by mosquitoes and just look at the moon…and it felt nice to watch it then, if a bit melancholy.

The melancholy feeling increased exponentially as the time I spent watching it also became the time I spent waiting for my calls to be returned. They rarely were.
And in the waiting and contemplating her, the moon gradually began to morph into her, which I was unaware of until I was given that assignment and it became the poem where I first acknowledged my Wolf existed. But it was about her and about the distance and the unendurable feeling of the bones and tendons and skin changing until the person who was there is gone and a monster takes their place.

And then something unexpected happened, and in a single evening, the moon became him instead, and I knew it would hurt — it would always hurt — but I would not die. I was a monster and could never die.
For years that was what the moon told me. And every time I’d see it, I would be hurt…but I would live, and that was what mattered. And on nights when I did not see it and on nights when it was gone, I would hear it in the voice with the ragged tin edges, and in the sounds that filled the hollow in my chest, and I would not feel the melancholy anymore, but the knowledge that I was something darker and more enduring than I’d been before.

But that changed, too…and instead of feeling comforted that I was stronger as a monster, instead of feeling like the moon was helping me assimilate and live again, I began to feel like I might’ve been taken in. It wasn’t who I thought it was anymore. It was something older and stonier and more indifferent. And it owned me. It still does.
Being fascinated with mythology as I am, I think about this often, and wonder how I can get out of it…but because I am a Wolf, I don’t think that anything short of a silver bullet would shake its hold on me. But I love my being a monster. I’m not about to give that up anytime soon.

And that’s why I cannot go to the moon.
If I did…I feel like it would suddenly care about what I am, and it would have me shot.

I take this more seriously than I care to acknowledge sometimes.