Howling at the moon is so passé. My parents do it. My grandparents. Even my older, perfect sister does it. Perhaps it’s an inherited trait, but I’d never give in. I’m an evolved woman of the modern era.
Night creeps upon me. The moon’s pale face glows bright, making my skin prickle and throat itch. Trembling, I retrieve the phone from my purse and access my Twitter account. The urge is strong. I grind my teeth as my fingers crash through the letters A-H-H-O-O-O-O. Once I hit Send the urge dissolves. A sigh escapes me. That’s right. I’m an evolved woman.