Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

This past week, I celebrated my 21^st birthday.  It’s a pretty big one.  Now, I can finally do all of those things I’ve been doing.  While everyone around me made a fuss over what a great big milestone this is, they failed to prepare me for the true changes that were about to take place.

After consuming several celebratory rum ’n Shamrock Shakes, I promptly vomited in my roommate’s bed and was forced to excuse myself to the bathroom for a little clean-up.  While washing up at the sink, I noticed something unusual.

Yes.  My legs had become strangely hairy, and my feet seemed to be… mutating, in some odd way.  Though this could have been a trick my eyes were playing on me due to all of the rum and shrooms I’d taken earlier (which, I was informed later by friends, is still not legal at 21, apparently.  I don’t know why they keep changing the rules), I began to suspect that these strange changes were perhaps connected to the full moon which took place that night, and that I was maybe turning into a teen wolf or something.   Then I remembered that I was in my twenties and, as such, had no business being a teen anything anymore, so, there was one theory out.

Then my dad showed up unexpectedly.

My father explained to me that he was actually a centaur, and that it was with centaur-magic that he was able to maintain the shape of a regular human man most of the time.  However, at midnight on nights where there is a full moon, when the veil separating this world from that of the centaurs is at its thinnest, he reverts back to his true form.  Of course, I was very curious, and asked him to explain to me why I should care about his personal life and if he brought me a birthday gift.  He seemed a little annoyed by my questions, but explained that, as his child, I also carried centaur blood, and would also take on the true shape of our people at midnight beneath the full moon.  Because I was only half-centaur, the changes had only now started to take place.

My father went on to explain that my centaur blood was also the root of many of my most endearing habits and traits.  For example, our people are a proud and noble race, but naturally untrusting towards other beings, so I may sometimes stubbornly refuse to believe what someone tells me without verifying the information myself, first, whether or not I have any knowledge of the subject.  Centaurs are also passionate story-tellers, and much of their history is passed through oral tradition, so I may be prone to, say, keeping someone up all night while I tell, in excruciating detail, the entire history of the “Justice League”.  This is simply the centaur way, and should be respected and accepted by my peers.

Then came the test.  I was told that, as a centaur, I must prove myself as a hunter, so that there was no reason for other centaurs to suspect that I may be a drain on their society, unable to fend for myself.  I asked if all centaurs had to undergo this ritual.  He said no.  Anyway, in order to prove myself, I had to kill a bunny.

After he recovered his dignity, my father was forced to admit that I had passed with flying colors, thus proving what I had always suspected: that I only appear to others as lazy and unmotivated because I am.  I can totally achieve things whenever I feel like it. 

Anyway, by this time, it was pretty late, and I still needed to wash the vomit out of my hair before my morning class, so we started heading back.  My dad presented me with my Official Centaur Start-Up Kit, which included all of the things that a real centaur needs.

I was becoming self-aware enough at this point to realize that everything that my father had told me made absolutely no sense.  After all, how did he meet my mom and have kids with her if he was a centaur?  That made no sense.  He explained to me that my mom was actually a magical talking polar bear who just happens to be beautiful enough to pass as a human.

Mom was always one for bear hugs.  Ha!  You get it?  Get it?

They had met on a magical quest that had to do with restoring some kids to their throne, or maybe something to do with magic jewelry or something.  Maybe they destroyed a god together or whatever.  I don’t know.  I had puked again somewhere around this time, and was starting to revert to my human form.  My focusing skills were a little off.

But at least now my lineage made sense.

"What?!  Now it makes less sense!"

Anyway, I came to realize the importance of being a hybrid were-centaur-polar bear.  It completely absolved me of any guilt I had ever felt, ever.  After all, all of my traits can be blamed on my genetics.  None of it is my fault.  So, say, if someone didn’t appreciate me talking down to them, holding long-winded, one-sided conversations pertaining only to my own interests, insisting on keeping our bedroom windows open throughout the winter, and generally being a louse, then maybe they ought to take a step back and stop being such a narrow-minded RASCIST!  Sheesh!  As if I wasn’t discriminated against enough!

The most dangerous game.