I should not watch scary movies. I’d like to say I just shouldn’t watch them alone, but honestly, it’s not any better when I watch them with friends. I know this. I’ve known this fact roughly two weeks longer than forever.

The final nail in the coffin (you see what it does to me? I start getting all morbid and using death-y sayings) was watching The Strangers with Ben and Ashley, about 3 years ago. Adam was in Vancouver on a co-op term and he wouldn’t have watched it anyway because he doesn’t like to be scared (smartypants). Ashley watched most of it from the safety of the stairwell where she couldn’t actually see the screen, but pieced it all together based on the audio, combined with the look of abject terror on my face. Well, the abject terror that was visible above the pillow I was strangle-holding against me. I may or may not have been chewing on the pillow in distress.

That movie freaking TERRIFIED me. What do you mean, “because you were home.” Could that ending BE any creepier? I submit that it could not. But did I learn my lesson? Yes, of course. I never watched a scary movie again, because it is dumb to do something you don’t enjoy and I’m a grown up and no one can force me to watch a movie I don’t want to watch.

Sigh.

No, I didn’t learn. I then watched Paranormal Activity with Ben and Ashley, figuring it was clearly make-believe so I wouldn’t have to be scared of it happening to me. That’s pretty rational, isn’t it? I mean, obviously, my condo isn’t haunted by a demon and therefore I am A-okay. Except that it turns out that being rational isn’t possible when you become haunted by a bloody movie. Seriously, you guys. I didn’t sleep for days. I didn’t sleep well for weeks. I couldn’t get a particular image out of my mind—and no, I won’t tell you what it is, because then I’d be remembering it all over again and I don’t need that, thank you very much, but it gives me this reaction—and I was scared to fall asleep. I tucked myself into bed like a tightly wound burrito, lest any evil breezes ruffle my sheets. Because malevolent spirits are impassably thwarted by bedsheets, of course. I depended on the cats’ peaceful sleeping to reassure me that I was safe (Maui is DEFINITELY too paranoid to let a demon reside in the same room as her without a LOT of hissing).

So, what did I do last night? Let me tell you: I’m alone and decide to check out Supernatural on Netflix. I mean, it’s primetime TV. How scary can it be? I thought maybe it would be funny and perhaps campy. Well. Thirty seconds in and there’s a bloody (literally) woman on fire and pinned to the ceiling Exorcist-style. CLEARLY IT CAN BE VERY SCARY. So, because I’m a smart and responsible adult, I turned it off and read Winnie the Pooh and then went to sleep and dreamed of ponies and fairy dust.

No I didn’t. I watched the whole damn thing. And maybe another two episodes because I JUST DON’T LEARN, DO I?

And then I had to take the dog out, in the dark night. Alone and tweaky. Then I get in, lock the door (which I have to check three times after tucking myself in) and decide Grimby can sleep on the bed with me, because he’s lonely and needs comforting. And also because I figure he’d bark at any evil spirits creeping up to my bedside.

Yes, I’m pathetic and used my small, young dog to make me feel safe and protect me from my own imagination. What? WHAT? I ADMITTED IT AND THAT’S THE IMPORTANT THING. He might be allowed to sleep on the bed again tonight and maybe until Adam’s home from Vancouver. Look at me, problem-solving all over the place.

This is a reenactment of my scared face.

Getting more scared. I just noticed I’m wearing my headphones. I’m not scared of music.