I hate horror movies. I was raised by a grandmother who scared us
into obedience with tales of “monstruos, fantasmas, y cuyuis.” (That monsters,
ghosts, and boogie men for those of you who do not speak Mexican grandmother.)
One wrong move, one tiny bit of rebellion and . . . bam! . . . we were dead
meat. Literally.
El Diablo was always waiting for
disobedient children (like me) to make one wrong move so he could close the
deal. I did my share of naughty stuff in the daytime to make me worry what
might be waiting for my mortal soul at night.
There is a good reason I have
always slept with a night light. I was
born with an overactive imagination and a lack of mental fortitude when it came
to anything that lived and thrived in
the dark.
Things with big nasty claws (and
in bad need of a manicure) waited for me to fall asleep so they could rip
through my mattress and drag me off into . . . wherever spooky creatures drag
off big, old marshmallows like me. Things lurked in the dark, waiting for Miss
Cream Puff over here to fall asleep so they could PoUnCe on my juicy insides.
Knowing this, why would I want to
watch a scary movie?
No, thank you. I will be over here with all the windows and
doors locked, all the lights on, watching It’s
a Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.
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