Please do tell me, with your immense expertise, what exactly a monster would like. Now keep in mind, any answer you give is wrong, because you are human and your testimony that you know the first thing about me or my species is ridiculous. Because you’re afraid of monsters, they should be spooky? So in love with their image that they must skulk around in cloaks and hiss? Because you say so? You feel entitled to backward engineer me?
Let me give you a little perspective, more specifics for your reconstruction of what a monster should enjoy.
In the year 1665, the plague hit London for the worst and final time. It killed about 100,000 people. I personally helped bury about 4,000 of them, by my estimation, in single graves and pits. 4,000 corpses. But what does that look like? Let’s put some imagery to it. The average body is five feet long by about two feet wide. That gives us total square footage of 10. 10 x 4,000 = 40,000 square feet. If we lay each body down, end to end, side by side, we have about one square acre of death, puss, rot, maggots, filth. But perhaps you’re not acquainted with acreage. Perhaps you need a better image. A football field is 1.3 acres. A football field of corpses in less than a few months. And those are just the ones I helped bury, out of necessity, because the bodies were piled in the streets and someone had to do it.
And you may say to yourself, “But you’re a fucking monster. Why would you care? It would be like looking at a pile of dead pigeons.”
Pigeons don’t speak. They don’t slowly and vulnerably unveil their psychology to you. They don’t have aspirations and hopes. They don’t pray in whispers and sobs. They don’t give away their children to fate. They don’t write poetry or make art. They don’t act with generosity toward you at their own personal expense with grave contemplation of what it might mean to themselves. They don’t enlist you in their schemes, the lives of their offspring. They don’t welcome you into their homes. Pigeons don’t look like men. Pigeons aren’t shaped like me. I can also mourn pigeons. I can mourn animals. I can mourn anything, but I’ll be damned if anyone tells me that because I am a monster, I am barred from mourning my friends, my countrymen, my fellow workers, my teachers.
You don’t have that right.
The very next year, I watched the city I built with my two hands go up in a fire the likes of which you cannot imagine. I saw people trapped in walls of flames, screaming to get free and clawing at each other like desperate rodents. That’s two years. And a few years before that? The Civil War. Roadside executions. heads over every gate house.
In the length of your lifespan, I watched the violent or untimely ends of thousands upon thousands, destruction, calamity, terror and sadness.
So tell me again why I’m not allowed to find rounded edges and simplistic features charming. Tell me why I’m not allowed to wallow in the harmony of rainbows and adore the sound of a child’s voice who cannot yet pronounce words properly. Tell me why I am not allowed to appreciate innocence, purity, or affection that knows no limits or places no boundaries on itself. Tell me why I’m forbidden to admire perfectly structured miniature things, that came to be without any tinkering, and defy one to find flaw? Why am I not permitted to seek joy, or naïveté, or crayons, or transforming dinosaur toys, or fat, legless animal dolls like sausages with eyes? Why am I not allowed to seek out friendship or affection?
Tell me that, my wise, well-informed, cryptozoologist.
You think I don’t know what I am? That I am dangerous? That even as I appreciate these things I’m not also tempting humans to see me as more like themselves?
Imagine what kind of mind I have, to stand over that football field of corpses, those people, those children and mothers I came to enjoy, to help, to befriend…what kind of mind must I have to stand over them in grief and realize even as I stand there that it makes me hungry. Imagine what it takes for me to seek happiness and yet know that even as I do so, I must never reach it, because that is the moment I fail. Just imagine that.
And then tell me why I am not allowed to be both gentle and grotesque.
You think you know so much. People come here and expect to see me brood, but when I do, they scoff and say “Well, isn’t that a fine carbon copy of an emo vampire story.” I am given no quarter to feel anything with which you do not agree. And now you come to me and explicitly forbid me from amusing myself in this life?
I don’t often say things like this, but kindly “go fuck yourself”.
The audacity, stupidity, or prejudice?
What I find amazing: The unicorn costume and that giant foam middle finger.
Best reaction ever.
Thank you. I’m quite fond of it as well. When I saw it on the bitmoji, I wasn’t sure how it could be put to use, but this ask presented me with a unique opportunity.
This is the only time I’ve ever been afraid of you. You seem to be seven types of pissed off.
If only I had an accurate count for the ways I am “pissed off”. I don’t think there is math for that, nor science to do it justice. What would we call that study, I wonder. Doubtless it would be spelled like a mad slap of the computer keys with a bloody piece of meat…-ology, and be pronounced like the gaping maw of hell opened and greeted “Please do come in, because we are having a barbecue.”
I think of that as “Mt. Simon threatening to blow”
Oddly enough, I respond precisely like the old gods when offered human sacrifices.