I love werewolves, and I have ever since I was 8, when I first saw An American Werewolf in London. I think there’s something very alluring in the idea of giving in to our animal side and shedding our humanity to take on the characteristics and form of the beast.
Having said that, I would not want to meet a werewolf in a dark alley. I mean, they’re very messy eaters, so you have to be damned lucky to just get scratched or nipped. And seeing as how I’ve already laid out my odds for surviving a zombie flick, it should go without saying that I am not lucky enough to get by with a scratch or a nip. The only were I would turn into is a weresnack.
Wait, I have one chance. If, just as the werewolf makes the first slashing attack, I shit myself, then there is a chance the werewolf will be disgusted by the scent and go look for a less stinky meal. It’s a long-shot, but I’ll be sure to make that mental note: If I see a werewolf, wait for the scratch, and then shit my pants.
I hope that if I can get lucky enough to be infected, that the curse allows me to choose the animal I identify with. Then I could be a werehedgehog. I would move to London, roaming the streets at night for victims. You would hear me behind you, my low animal voice growling, “Dinsdale!”
Ah, who am kidding? I’m a weresnack, with all the victim trimmings, for sure.
I am a bisexual transsexual with bigender tendencies, a former resident of Texas, but now live in Milan with my husband. I used to write in a variety of genres and published my work through 
