Dear Murky Fringe,
Thank you for your “advice” on raising werewolves.
How did I ever manage before you came along?
That goat-in-the-garage thing? Brilliant. I can’t believe that never occurred to me. Not once. Especially after the first time he changed and went through an orphanage like it was a bucket of wings.
I can’t believe that for the past 17 years I’ve raised a werewolf all by myself, working two jobs just to keep the boy in good schools.
In fact, I suppose it’s a miracle that my son hasn’t been cut down by a silver bullet.
Give me a fucking break!
People like you look on from the outside, making judgments, forming opinions, using words like “rampage” and “bloody mayhem” and “thrash apart,” as if you knew what any of that meant. Seen bloody mayhem have you?
You’ve never been there the next day when the curse wears off and your 14 year old son comes to you nursing an awful blood hangover, screaming, “I’m gonna throw up people!”
There’s no hair-of-the-dog for that, asshole.
Of course we know when the full moon occurs, and yes, there are goat subsidies available, but when am I gonna write up that grant? Before my night shift starts at the Circle K? During my lunch break at TJ Max?
Maybe I could get my ex-husband to help me write that grant, or bolt those chains to the floor, or go kidnap a bum because there’s just no money to buy half a cow?
Oh wait, my ex-husband is somewhere in Nevada with all of our savings, and strangely he didn’t leave his new phone number when he snuck out in the middle of the night.
You don’t have a werewolf child do you? You just like lecturing those who do.
Does that make you feel good about yourself? Do you feel strong?
Next full moon, you better watch your back because at some point, I’ve just got to let him go.
