Dear Diary, It happened again. The rays of the full moon transformed me into a bloodthirsty wolf creature that must feast on human flesh. Oh, and I also beat that super tough level on Candy Crush. I’m killing it this week! . . . . . Dear Diary, When you can’t find any humans to feast on, Arby’s is not that bad of a substitute. . . . . . Dear Diary, So I found out that the only thing that can kill me is a silver bullet. Or being struck with a sliver-tipped cane. Or, possibly, silverware. So basically I’m immortal, but with a severe allergic reaction to silver. Oh man, I bet the other monsters are going to make me sit at the allergy table at lunch. . . . . . Dear Diary, Let’s face it: I am a complete failure. Not only as a man, but as a monster. I’m basically just a giant dog in pants. And everyone loves dogs—the only ones afraid of me are cats! I hate Mondays! LOL! And life. WHY CAN’T I JUST DIE ALREADY?! . . . . . Dear Diary, I made a lot of progress with my therapist today. I think the root of my problem lies with my isolation. Wolves run in packs. I need to get out and meet people, not EAT people! Ha! We laughed a lot at that one. OH GOD DEATH WOULD BE SUCH A SWEET RELIEF . . . . . Dear Diary, I’m so sick of this werewolf curse—do you know how hard it is to find a flea collar that fits a grown man? Why couldn’t I have been cursed with something cool like a sparkling personality or a giant penis like Dracula? . . . . . Dear Diary, I’ve made a big life decision: I’ve decided to become a vegetarian. Except for fish. And human flesh. . . . . . Dear Diary, I finally heard back from the Monster Union today. Turns out I don’t qualify for full benefits because I’m technically only a part-time monster. What a load of crap. They let that Jason guy in and he’s just a big fat dude in a hockey mask! We’ll see what my lawyer says about this. . . . . . Dear Diary, I ate my lawyer. . . . . . Dear Diary, I took my therapist’s advice and hung out with some other werewolves last night. Jesus, these guys are gross. It turns out I’m the only werewolf that cooks his food. Haven’t they heard of E. Coli? Yuck. . . . . . Dear Diary, I am so done with dating. You’d think women would understand me turning into a monster once a month. AM I RIGHT GUYS? Seriously considering getting neutered. DEATH I AWAIT YOUR COLD EMBRACE. . . . . . Dear Diary, My therapist says I should let go of my guilt about eating people when I’m a werewolf. I can’t help it if I turn into a monstrous, bloodthirsty beast. Sure, I could lock myself up every full moon, but who has the time to track lunar cycles? . . . . . Dear Diary, I ate my therapist. . . . . . Dear Diary, I think I might be in love. I know I promised myself I wouldn’t let it happen—it’s not fair to let anyone get close to me—but affairs of the heart can never be ruled by logic. In related news, I think I got a dog pregnant. *** Paul Merrill lives in Seattle, former home of his beloved SuperSonics and current origin of his tweets.