Lycanthropes are usually portrayed in film and television as strong, masculine creatures; a man who transforms into the beast during a dreaded full moon; rippling muscles, aggressive, salivating huffs and a terrifying gleam in his eye...
But I'm here, standing atop a jagged precipice with the pine-scented wind billowing through my hair and the stark light from the monthly full moon shining upon me, to raise my fistful of tampons in protest, realization and clarification, all while being bloody bloated and in a foul mood. Women are true, real-life werewolves.
The similarities are uncanny:
1. We have a condition that we don't control
2. We transform once a month
3. We have peculiar cravings and needs
4. Just like a wild animal, we can't be trusted or controlled
5. Sometimes we wake up covered in blood
Need more proof? Didn't think so.
On a slightly more serious note, this concept crept into my consciousness earlier this week when both Z and I were rage-filled, get-out-of-my-face, I-disagree-with-everything, give-me-chocolate-this-instant twin werewolves. Clearly we're spending too much time together because we've latched on to each other's monstrous cycle, forcing us to take a deliberate and surprisingly rational break from writing and querying. It's a good thing this doesn't happen every month... oh wait.
Too much information? Didn't think so.