An American Werewolf In America

Rather than waste my time trying to explain to you sane people what it's like to have your sleep stolen by the full moon, that beautiful bane of my monthly existence, I've decided to share my inner experiences and pre-dawn adventures with the unfortunate diurnals. The feeling doesn't always start at the same time, sometimes creeping in quietly as the moon waxes closer, or sometimes, like today (or technically yesterday), that deep-chested feeling of restlessness ignites, and I feel an energy rush through me that I affectionately describe as my veins boiling. I pace and move around as I start to feel that pull, that need to move, like from a high pressure area to a low pressure area, the world pushing in while my feet pace me forward while that pull grabs my chest and tugs hard. It's hard to stay in touch with certain restraints, and fear is long gone: it has no place in the mind of a monster. Imaginary characters have nothing to fear. Otherwise how would Monsters Inc. work? Self-depricating maybe? If you understood that, you know me far too well. Anyway, I begin my night getting payed for spending time in exquisite company, which continues for a nice stretch after clocking out. As all good things must come to an end, or at least a pause, I took my jaunty, high-topped step to the streets of our fair Los Angeles, hiking back from Troy East of Eden on my usual stroll, excitement and resentment clenching my hands reflexively in expectation of the sleepless night to come. Some time spent with an old french buddy, and I find myself in the passenger seat on the way to Northridge, having layed to rest my previous unwillingess for the potential gleam of adventure and relief from the feeling. My purist friend Michael (for the sake of my imaginary new readership, I've decided to introduce everyone in my life on occassion. Since I know my entire readership, I've decided to introduce you people to yourselves. Check your reflections in my irises people, it's a rare opportunity) turns to me, cigarette in his hand at the wheel, sleeves rolled up in a typical flannel shirt and wildly large hair dancing in the wind from the open window, and tells me that he's started to see police as sharks, swimming through the freeway ocean like predators through schools of trembling Volvos and Hondas, seeking out the unruly few, laughing at their pitiful struggle to escape (I'm sorry hammerhead, I didn't know I couldn't do that...) and feasting on green cotton flesh. I, in my usual military/traveler/bum attire, responded that I had had the same vision, and remembered an old conversation I'd had with my dad, when I told him I felt like life was a river, and humanity flowed through it like fish. And that I had begun to realize that, possessing a detachedly passionate, passionately detached duality, I was amphibious and thus able to both swim in the water of life and watch safely from the shore, observing the eddies and flows and appreciating their intricacy. We came to rest in an old friend's apartment, there to "crash" for a few hours before heading to the pound to save a reportedly adorable puppy from the clutching hands of probably far more worthy owners and play with the lucky little biatch before our friend's test is over and she gets to spend the rest of her draggingly slow doggy years in similar company (The severity of the situation and the horrible meaness were added for poops and giggles, and should not be considered strictly non-fiction). Anyway, I'd say tonight was more of a mental adventure than an eventful adventure (slant rhyme), but it was a pleasant enough distraction for this servant to nocturnal shenanigans. That regretfully relieved, relievedly regretful (those are fun) sensation is a-rolling in with the onset of morning, and that grey light is silhouetting the last dregs of my darkness as it illuminates the safe side of the globe. Too bad sleep is a bad idea, I think it might actually be achievable now. I guess I'll just go apologize for being the pretentious bastard who blogged while his co-adventurer napped, even though nobody cares. I had a very fitting poem for this, but as my computer has been out of commission and doesn't seem to be planning on returning any time soon (and by that I mean I'm too lazy to call Dell), I guess it is perhaps fortuitous that I avoid that particular cliche', mmm quite. Cheerio my esteemed chaps and chappesses.