It’s Saturday afternoon. You’re not at home. (Or you’ve stopped answering my calls for some other reason — you’re passed out on the bathroom floor beside an empty Tylenol bottle, or this is your silent-treatment breakup method — but I prefer to think you’re not at home.)
So where are you? Are you playing football with your friends, outside in the crackly-crisp fallen leaves? Are you at an art museum, absorbing the old masters, or in a bookstore inhaling coffee-and-new-binding fumes? I hope so. For your sake. Because I swear to you, Joseph, if you are with the Werewolf Society again I will get my own silver bullet. Don’t think I won’t. I don’t want you hanging around those nutcases anymore.
Let me give it to you straight: you are not a werewolf.
And straighter: even if you were a werewolf, we would deal with that. You still would not need their creepy group-think meetings, their self-help psycho-babble communist propaganda crap.
A werewolf co-op is a bad idea.
Werewolves Anonymous is a bad idea.
Books on getting in touch with your inner wolf in order to achieve a holistic, balanced lifestyle are a bad idea.
A pack of currently-human werewolves sitting on cracking plastic chairs in the library basement, drinking Folgers, eating stale store-bought cookies and whining about their lives is a very bad idea. Maybe the worst yet.
Damn it, why won’t you pick up the phone?
Hell, if you can decide you’re a werewolf, maybe your answering machine has decided that it is secretly a green tomato on LSD. Maybe it’s at the GTLSD society for hopeless losers who can’t get laid because they’re too busy attending bitch-sessions to answer their girlfriends’ calls. The few of them who have girlfriends. Or boyfriends.
How many women go to these meetings, anyway? You better not be scoping out a wolfmate, Joseph, or so help me I will get two silver bullets and I will go on a rampage. Don’t think I won’t.
Okay. Guess that’s about it. Call me when you get this.
Liz Wright talks too much — especially when leaving messages.