| Current mood: | cowardly |
| Current music: | tori amos : silent all these years |
over-active imagination
I really hate letting my dog out at nights. I'm always waiting to open my door to find Mr. Scary-Ass Creepy-Leering Fang Man peering at me from the other side of the screen. Indubitably he'd grin at me, his big, horsy teeth stained yellow, and he'd say something terribly cliché like, "Hello, little girl. Do you want to come out and play?" His voice would be low and raspy, the tell-tale sign of someone who's been smoking since they were about eight.
The beauty of an over-active imagination.
Of course I'm also the girl who's convinced that there are mass murderers lurking in my living room as soon as we turn out all the lights and I usher my sleepy mother off to bed. I hardly ever turn the lights on when I'm running around the house at 3 a.m., and the fact that the house is kind of old and naturally creaky, and the vines outside of the window like to tippity-tap on the glass while I'm alone in the dark makes late night tv watching an adventure.
I still get that childish thrill of fear and panic when I turn off the lights in the basement. I imagine great donnie darko-esque monster, killer-bunnies lying in wait, and giant, hairy tarantulas with foot-long, razor sharp fangs waiting to pounce on me from the laundry room. That's when I squeak and bolt up the stairs as quickly as I can, slamming the door behind me.
I'm fearless when it comes to walking down a poorly lit street alone in the middle of the night.
But when it comes to monsters, killer bunnies, and toothy men trolling the immaculate boulevards of the country club area I'm a total chickenshit.
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