An Exceptionally Good Night For Werewolves
April 29, 2010
The moon is full and bright. The palm trees outside are swaying like a hurricane.
I woke up an hour ago to the wind howling against my one window — a window so badly insulated that my curtains are moving even though the window is closed — and the moon shining so brightly through my other window, the itty-bitty porthole window by my bed, that I just awoke, extracted myself from my sleep cocoon, and constructed a curtain from thumbtacks and a bath towel.
It must be an exceptionally good night for werewolves.
The raccoons seemed happy earlier, their little raccoon feet scampering across the roof. Now they have likely blown away or been eaten. Or they are making babies in the chimney. Chim, chim, cheree.
It is a good night for feeling a little crazy, for waking up in the middle of the night and whispering prayers, for ceasing the tossing and turning to reach over, snap on the light, and write. Now that I sit up, my head is drooping to the side. In the dark, I forgot I was tired. In the light, I’m so tired I can’t figure out a clever way to end this sentence.
I have a zit. I hope it’s gone tomorrow.
Sometimes it helps to cushion the real stresses in life by fretting about miniscule things.
Sometimes it helps to cushion the real stresses in life by getting a good night’s sleep.
Sometimes stresses get worse when one lies awake thinking about werewolves. Not the Twlight werewolves. Real werewolves. Gross, bony, evil werewolves with their giant, curved spinal cords, their knobby, branched fingers and razored fingernails, their dripping fangs, their rank breath, their coarse ugly hairs that grow from their stinky pores.
So, I have constructed a curtain out of a towel and thumbtacks, and I am hiding in my down blanket, hoping that now the wind will sing me to sleep. Hopefully the raccoons have satiated the werewolves’ ruthless hunger, and my towel-curtain will keep their snouts from poking in.
Good night, werewolves. Tomorrow you will just be little men again, awaking in ditches without your clothes.