Clinically Depressed Werewolf – Dropped Ice Cream as a Metaphor for Life

By: Clinically Depressed Werewolf, Official Bookshelf Battle Blog Sad Lycan Correspondent

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Arr…arr…arrrwooooooo…oh who am I kidding?  Howl today, gone tomorrow.  What am I even howling at?  Whatever it is, it is only a temporary blip on the endlessly changing radar screen of life.

I went to the ice cream parlor the other day, 3.5 readers.  I was hungry because, you know, I’m a werewolf and the one good thing about being a werewolf is that we can eat as much as we want and never gain any weight.  You’d think that’s a positive thing but honestly, I can turn any positive into a negative.  Frankly, if you’re constantly eating and never gaining any weight then it’s like it doesn’t even matter, like pushing a boulder up a hill only for it to fall down and then you have to push it up the hill again.

Where was I?  Does it even matter?  Oh right.  So I went to the ice cream parlor and I got a three scoop cone.  I got a scoop of rocky road, a scoop of strawberry, and a scoop of peanut butter fudge.  Three diverse scoops, all bringing their own benefits and detriments into the mix.

I got it into my mind that I could not exist without these three flavors missed together.  But alas, a freak gust of win blew in and knocked the peanut butter fudge off the top of my cone.

Oh, how I cheated I felt as I stared at that glop of peanut butter fudge ice cream lying on the ground.  I didn’t have any idea what to do next.

I’d already paid for it so I felt cheated.  I paid for three scoops so I should have gotten three scoops.  But it wasn’t the ice cream parlor’s fault.  They don’t owe me what they already gave me.

Then I was mad at myself but why?  It’s not like I could have preconceived that the wind was going to knock the scoop off my cone.

Suddenly, I was mad at the weather, the forces of nature, the world.  It felt like the fates were conspiring against me to prevent me from having any kind of enjoyment.  Oh, what a depressing feeling.

At one point it popped into my head that I should just lick the ice cream off of the ground.  I mean, sure it had germs on it but who am I?  The King of England?  I’m a werewolf.  I eat people, like, all the time.  And you know what?  People are dirty.  They’re extremely filthy, you have no idea.

I’ve eaten people who haven’t bathed for days.  I’ve eaten people who just got off of a sixteen-hour double shift at a hot, sweaty machine shop who tasted disgusting.

Hell, I’ve even eaten people who were sitting on the toilet who were right in the middle of doing their dirty business, a half pinched loaf stuck you know where.

Yet, all of a sudden, I’m all like, “Look at me.  I’m so fancy.  I shouldn’t have to lick peanut butter fudge ice cream off of the ground.”

Then I felt an internal struggle inside of me.  Am I a pretentious prude for not eating ice cream off of the ground?  Am I just being a proud werewolf, that I believe in myself too much to do something so disgusting and better yet, I deserve to feel that way?

Was all this mental turmoil really about the ice cream?  Was it about life instead?  Are we all just a bunch of ice cream scoops, happy to be a loved and desirable part of a cone one minute only to be knocked off our pedestal and left alone to rot in the mud the next?

Ahh…such is life.

So many questions.  So few answers.  I got so upset that I ran to a farm and ate seventeen sheep.  For awhile I was starting to feel better…until the eighteenth sheep fell on the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

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