The Birth of the Raccoon Era

It started with two little words: slightly feral.

I tossed it out like a joke, the way you throw a Cheeto to a seagull. Next thing I know, I’m spiritually adopted by raccoons. Don’t ask me how it happened — I didn’t pick the trash panda life, the trash panda life cornered me behind a Waffle House.

Raccoons are basically the auntie mascots of the animal kingdom. Messy little hands, eyeliner that always looks smudged, and a diet that consists of chaos and whatever’s within arm’s reach. Me, but with a tail. And the best part? They don’t apologize for it. You’ve never seen a raccoon look guilty for knocking over a trash can at 3 a.m. They’re just like: yeah, I did that. Anyway.

So now, raccoons are lore. They show up in designs, they haunt my stories, and they live rent-free in the Auntie Universe. Not because I planned it, but because sometimes you accidentally speak your mascot into existence. Slightly feral? Yeah, that’s raccoon core.