Wednesday, December 05, 2007

My One-hundred-and-thirty-seventh Post

So my sisters Martin and Faybe like horror movies. I’ve also been lead to believe my sisters like me. So, when I’m home and there’s a scary movie in the dollar theater, they often drag me along with them to a predictably late-night showing. You’d think they’d learn that I don’t. like. scary. movies. But since this particular series of events has happened on quite a few occasions, I must conclude that they’re just dumb. (I mean really! If I spend two hours muttering supercalifragilisticexpialidocious under my breath to distract myself while maintaining a death grip firm enough to leave fingernail marks in your arm—do you think I’m enjoying myself?) But maybe I’m dumb too, considering the number of times I’ve watched scary things of my own volition. Like that time I accidentally let The Exorcism of Emily Rose come up on my Netflix queue (I probably will never watch about a third of the movies in my queue, I just put them there because they catch my attention for some reason or another) and then, instead of just sending it back, I felt obligated to watch it. Alone. At night. It wasn’t even that scary, I just cannot handle suspenseful jump cuts and intense soundtracks.



Erm, I don’t remember why I started talking about this (I think it had something to do with the thriller-esque qualities in Veronica Mars), so I’m going to bed. I’ve been procrastinating for about a week and tomorrow it judgment day. Wish me luck.