Scared

I scare very easily but I love horror stories. Once in highschool, my classmates and I were sharing ghost stories and when I grew too frightened, I had to cry to make them stop. I've gone inside a carnival haunted house, screaming myself hoarse and nearly peeing my pants in terror. And rendering my friend's boyfriend's shirt unwearable. I don't know why I love going to the cinema to watch gory films. And I really do watch too. I don't shut my eyes or put my hands on my ears. Instead I'll concentrate on the story and scream bloody murder throughout the entire thing.

Every couple of years I'll get these periods of morbid and intense curiosity about murderers and their shocking crimes. The unsolved cases are usually the worst simply because they are still out there. I find it absolutely riveting. I'll read in bed, just before I go to sleep. Don't ask me why. Sometimes there are pictures of the crime scenes. More often than not, there will be photos of the killer or suspect and of the victim usually looking really happy. I'll read about the events leading up to the grisly killings and I'll be terrified. And I can't stop. Gripping and suspenseful, I love it. I understand that it is somewhat of an unhealthy obsession but only now am I beginning to worry that it might be developing into a serious condition.

I've been reading about gruesome murders all this week and I had to force myself to stop reading yesterday because I've been having trouble sleeping. I've never suffered from insomnia but I'm completely spooked that I dread going to sleep. So I leave my light on and keep the television tuned in to something corny and funny. Last night, I nearly cried because I couldn't find a happy program. I was so upset. The channels I surfed through seemed to contain nothing but scenes of people killing and dying or engaging in violence of some sort.

Yes friends, I finally decided it was enough and have been trying to resume normalcy but I'm struggling. I've since occupied myself with reading about Japan's new baby boy, getting over my disappointment about Suri Cruise not looking like an alien baby (but wondering why she looks Asian), giggling over Paris Hilton getting refused entry to a club reducing her to tears (hihi), watching the interview with the Austrian teenager who was abducted when she was 10 and finally escaped after 8 years and being sad of the crocodile guy's death by stingray (Steve Irwin, you'll be missed!). I carefully avoided the newslink about the severed heads found in Mexico. But I'm so curious!

Yet none of them have been absorbing enough for me get over my irrational fear of getting hacked to pieces while I'm peeing. I normally walk to my stop after work and my usual route has been disturbed because I'm too petrified to walk past the poorly lit park. I think that there are way too many bushes in that area. I have to wash my face or rinse my hair of shampoo with my eyes open, enduring the stinging soap suds. I figure, better that than opening my eyes and having the little boy from The Grudge suddenly appear at my leg. That movie was, by far, the one that most affected me. I've never felt so violated by a storyline, I'm used to the horror movie formula where everything is pretty much dictated by a clear narrative. But damn, the ghosts in that movie cheated! Appearing in all sorts of places. You're supposed to haunt the general area of your death, not wander around and show up on buses or in stairwells. You have no business being there. I was so shaken afterwards when my friends and I left the cinema, we had moved off to one side so they could talk about it, that I was reduced to whimpering and rubbing the goosebumps off my arms. This lady appeared out of nowhere (to be fair, she was only walking past us) and sneezed! I was so rattled that I turned round and screamed obscenities at her. I apologized profusely when I realized what I had done and she walked away looking back at me like I was crazy. Huhuhuhuhu.

And now, I eagerly await The Black Dahlia because I'm familiar with the story. Huhu I still remember reading about how Elizabeth Short's body (pieces?) looked when it was found. Why do black and white photos look so much more sinister? I know it will be best if I refrain from seeing the film but I won't be able to resist.

Help me.