So last Saturday, Seamus and i visited an abandoned zoo. It was spooky.
Never go to an abandoned anything with me, because i have two life philosophies that, when combined, create almost certain death:
1. When faced with a decision, choose the option that makes a better story later
2. Nothing in horror movies is ever real so you should definitely check out that mysterious noise
The inside of the monkey house was disappointing at first… until the proverbial mysterious noise. Seamus looked up, but it was too late–it had already spotted us, and it leapt down and bit each of us right on the ass. This isn’t the first time a pissed off animal has bit me in the ass, and it won’t be the last. But this time, something was different.
We ran back to the car and checked our wounds. They were gone. I mean, the holes were still there in our jeans (i really can’t afford a new pair and super-pissed about it) but our skin was flawless, like it had never happened.
After he put me in a headlock and wrestled me into the child safety seat that i ride in because i’m so short, we went home, ate salted caramel gelato, and marathoned Community until we fell asleep. When we woke up, we didn’t speak about the monkey attack because what would we say?
By Wednesday it was clear, though. It wasn’t a ghost monkey. It was a were-monkey. Because Seamus and i both went and did this, even though we’re heinously out of shape and terrified of heights.
Oh and also, so is our friend John, so now we have something in common with him besides being really good-looking and charming and smelling good.