Honestly, I’m glad Halloween is over. It’s not that I don’t love the costumes, the candy, carving pumpkins, and the candy, but I am a pansy. You may wonder what that has to do with anything and I’ll tell you. All the scary movies that come on T.V. the week before Halloween are my nemesis. I cannot stand scary movies. I’ll be as bold to say they are worse than stirrup pants and pet guinea pigs.
There is nothing that ruins my television viewing experience like flipping through the channels and inadvertently stumbling upon Halloween 12: The Repeated Revenge of Michael Myers. The worst part is P loves a good scary movie because they don’t scare him at all. He enjoys dissecting the movie into all the different reasons it’s an implausible story line with the number one reason being that if there’s a deranged killer on the loose then why isn’t anyone carrying a gun? Says the man who plays pool while wearing a sidearm.
All I know is that he talked me into watching some terrible movie called Urban Legend a few years ago under the guise that it was so stupid that even I couldn’t be scared and I didn’t sleep for a week afterwards. Oh, and the time that we watched Sixth Sense and it freaked me out so bad that I put the DVD back in its case and put it outside. Because that’s normal.
I’m a pansy. I own it.
Nevertheless, we had a great Halloween filled with nothing much scarier than a southern belle who referred to herself as “Scarlett O’Harris” and a gladiator.
Unfortunately, I spent the rest of the weekend not feeling very well. I don’t want to say it was all the Reeses I ate, so I’ll blame the Butterfingers instead.