Did you see it? Did you see the eclipse!?
As I'm writing this, it hasn't happened yet, so I can't really claim to have seen it myself. Then again, since I'm a fictional character, and therefore intrinsically a lie by my very nature, I could just say that I SAW THE SUPER FLOWER BLOOD MOON, and that statement would be as true as anything else about me. But, as stuffy old British guys might say, that wouldn't be very sporting, so I won't. Odds are good, though, that I'll see it, since Brian's been staying up super late watching Stargate SG•1. Seeing as I'm a manifestation of his imagination, I stay up late too. (Though personally, I think that show is boring! There are no skateboards and I've yet to see a single person knit.)
Now, I know a lot of you don't care about a lunar eclipse and are asking: Is it now canon that Libby is a werewolf? And to that I say: Fuck no! I may be a lunatic, but I sure as hell don't transform into a furry moon-howler every 29.5 days. Like I said in the comic, I'm only a werewolf during Super Flower Blood Moons, and even then, it's not like I suddenly have a taste for human flesh—I'm way too sarcastic for that. Not only that, but my relationship to continuities and canons is…tenuous at best. See, when you actually know you're a fictional character, and you don't have to satisfy corporate mandates about shared universes, you can be a werewolf one time and never again. This installment may ultimately be forgotten for all time! It won't matter! And if you're a person of taste, you'll keep reading it anyway, because I'm a badass sk8er girl.
Oh, that's another thing. I'm not technically a werewolf in this comic. I'm a wífwolf. That's because back in (literally) Ye Olde English-y days, man just meant a generic person, were (pronounced like "where") meant dude and wíf (pronounced "weef") meant chick. Those old words don't show up much anymore (except man, which now means dude), but werewolf literally means "dude-wolf," and since sk8er girls fall into the chick category, I'd be a "chick-wolf," or otherwise a wífwolf. (If I got any of this wrong, you can let me know, but I probably won't update it. In reality, this was all just a way to have a third paragraph.) Also, when I call you "dudes" at the start of these scribb1es, I'm not saying that you are all Old English weres. You're just folks, but without the acoustic guitars, peasant blouses, and weird obsession with tea. I mean, there's a difference between minute and minute. It's actually pretty sick that our brains can figure out the differences between all these identical words (sound, spelling, or both), and it's only when we start actively thinking about it (or the context is really ambiguous) that it riles us up.
So, instead of being riled, let's just pretend we were all born knowing how to pronounce Worcestershire. That means we're all geniuses and never make any mistakes whatsoever. If you do make a mistake, then you can just look at the moon and think, Damn! That's a giant, old rock. It's been around for so long, and it doesn't even know what Worcestershire Sauce is! Maybe my error isn't such a big deal after all. And then you pause to wonder if you yourself know what Worcestershire Sauce is, and if you do, then you go kiss a llama or something…That, or you can just think about how hot I am with fangs and fur. (Seriously, it's like my body is its own sauna, and I dink I dust bid my dongue!)
Oh, and next time this all happens, please be sure to turn to page 394!