The Horrorible truth

Published April 5, 2016 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

I have a bizarre fondness for horror movies. It comes from many, many dreary Saturday afternoons that I spent lying on the couch in Mr. Steve’s dark living room watching some truly terrible horror movies and some legitimately creepy classic tomes of terror.

Mr. Steve always had at least one dog who would worm his way on the couch to wrap himself around me. (I’m not tiny and neither were any of the dogs, so it was a bit cramped but cozy.) It’s really hard to be too scared when there is a dog resting on you and one of your close friends is either laughing like a loon at the gory parts or pretending that he’s not napping.

I really miss that.

I still like horror movies, but I don’t see them very much. Somehow I don’t have the secure and cozy feeling lying on my couch facing the back yard, which is in and of itself a horror show.  My only security animal is Samantha, my spoiled calico, who I’m sure would gladly allow some monster or ghoul to gnaw on me as long as they brought her a treat and didn’t wake her up.  I do have Big Kid in the house now, but I’m not going to rely on him for security.

I own all of the Saw movies and all but the last of the Final Destination movies.  I own these because I watched them with Mr. Steve.

There are many, many movies that have been released over the last six years, but I haven’t been able to enjoy them.  I would like to think that it’s because I am have a genuine horror and for things that are happening in the real world, but actually I’m pretty sure that it’s because that watching a horror movie by myself is the most horrible thing I can possibly imagine.

I am in no way asking for an outpouring of pity and woe. (World’s worst law firm.) I have some thoughts, ideas, concerns and actual worries that burbling under the surface, but I’m trying not to think too much about it.

I have to relearn fourth grade math.

Now that’s scary.

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