Famous last words.
Woops. Fang is growling. She isn't happy with me implying that being a werewolf is a bad thing. Her growls give me headaches because they're all in my head and it's how she communicates: with emotions and sensations.
So let me rephrase: Being a werewolf isn't bad, per se. Just difficult.
...
See, she agrees with me on that.
Anyway, here goes: Day One.
Dear Reader,
(posting it makes it official and public, and officially public, so this is for you and no longer just for my diary)
I have the mother of all hickeys on my cleavage. It looks like a cross between a wasp sting, a carpet burn and a bruise from being tackled by a linebacker. It stings, itches and is tender to the touch. Ouch. And Ick.
Have to ask Judy if she remembers the guy's name. So embarrassing. At least I didn't go home with him. Although doing it in the farthest, darkest corner of the parking lot of the club
I can't believe I jumped his bones like that. 'Cause I must admit that I did the jumping. He didn't complain, of course, being a guy and all. But I initiated it. It was as if all rational thought flew right out the window.
Maybe I should report it to the police. I'm sure he must have slipped something in my drink to make me act so
I hope my new violet blouse covers the hickey up enough. Don't want to start work tomorrow with an oozing, red lump on my chest, or some silly scarf to cover it, not in 90° weather. People will know what's going on and I'll be forever labeled The Easy Girl or some such crap.
Again.
Please, God, no.
