I smell a rat

Cleo the Cat, living her best life

I saw the craziest thing in the pet store yesterday. I was there because it was my cat’s 15th birthday and I needed to buy her some gifts for her birthday celebration. I know what you’re thinking and, no, it was not ME who was the craziest thing in the pet store yesterday. If you choose not to have birthday parties for your pets, then that’s your prerogative, but I hope you realize you are missing out on a great excuse to have cake. And that’s sad.

Anyway, as my kid and I were waiting in line to pay for our various gifts, there was a woman at the check-out who had some kind of small animal resting on her shoulder. I pointed it out to my kid, and he screamed, “What is that?!?!” to my embarrassment and horror. Just kidding, I was just about to scream the same thing, but he beat me to it.

The owner of the pet glanced in our direction and replied sweetly, “He’s a rat.”

I screamed, “A rat?!?” and just stared at this gigantic thing perched on her shoulder. I mean…a rat. A GIANT rat. And it was wearing a leash.

Upon further inspection, we saw that the woman had a little carrier for the rat. It was a cat carrier, but for her rat. So it was a rat carrier, I guess.

My kid and I were just staring at the rat, amazed by its size and the fact that it was impeccably behaved. I think I’ve seen rats before on subway tracks. They were not impeccably behaved, as far as I was concerned.

Then something else caught my eye. There, sitting on the cashier’s counter two feet away, was a cat. Looking at the rat. I looked at my kid, he looked at me, and we both kind of panicked.

“Um, is it okay that there’s a cat right there?” I said to the cashier. I mean, how could the cat NOT be going crazy at that moment? Don’t cats hunt rats and mice? Isn’t that how they’re wired? What madness was this?

“Nah, he’s okay,” they said. I let it go, but I couldn’t help but picture the bloodbath that was surely about to happen. My kid would be traumatized. I would be traumatized.

All I wanted to do was scream, “Woman, put that rat in the carrier!!!” But I didn’t because I didn’t want to seem crazy. Yeah, because I was the crazy one in this situation.

It turns out that the woman with the rat left before the cat attacked it, to my huge relief. The rat was spared on that particular day, and all I’m left with are a variety of questions: Why a rat for a pet? Where do you get a leash that tiny? Do you take your pet rat on regular outings? Can you walk it like a dog? And, most importantly, WHAT WAS THE RAT’S NAME? I guess I’ll never know.

Update: My readers and me

I know my potential reading glasses have been the talk of the town since I posted about the possibility of needing them earlier this week. All I can read on the interwebs is, “Will she or won’t she buy the readers?!?” I’m here to update you and put your mind at ease.

I went to the optometrist yesterday and got good news and bad news. The good news: It was all in my imagination and I don’t need reading glasses in any way!

Just kidding. I totally need reading glasses. That’s the bad news. The good news is that my ability to see distance has improved a lot. I don’t know how that happened. I’m told it comes with age, but I’d like to think that all those eye workouts I did (eye lunges, eye push-ups, eye squats) finally paid off! Yipee!

After I was given a new and improved prescription for my contact lenses, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and buy some readers. Hey, maybe I’d even try to stay  positive and embrace it! I headed over to Walgreens and was trying really hard to feel AOK about it, and was succeeding until I saw this:

 

As you can see from the photograph, the readers are on the far right at the end of the aisle. But what did I encounter on the WAY to the readers? Well, all the things somebody buying readers might also need according to Walgreens. You’ll immediately notice the walker just a few feet away. Upon closer inspection, I found a toilet safety rail, a raised toilet seat, a foam cushion to sit on for when I guess your hemorrhoids are flaring up, and replacement wheels for the above-mentioned walker.

I’m not going to lie: it was really hard to embrace this new stage of my life after seeing this. I walked by the display and began to peruse the selection of readers, but the minutes ticked by. I was feeling more and more yucky about it and, most importantly, couldn’t find a style that wasn’t hideous. I finally freaked out and had to leave.

After I gave myself a stern talking-to, I decided to take a trip to this trendy glasses store and pick out a pair there. I figured then I would feel like was going shopping for “a fashion statement accessory.” Yeah, that was the ticket.

After lots of moaning and groaning (I’m sure the saleswoman in the shop just loved me), I finally decided on a pair:

So there you have it. FYI, I did not get a chain so I could wear them around my neck and always know where they are, but you never know. My husband says I might need one because the next thing to go is the memory. He is just hilarious.

 

Read it and weep

I’ve been in denial for a while now about something that, at first, I thought was no big deal. But things have escalated quickly. And they say the first step in fixing a problem is admitting that there is a problem.

So fine. I’ll just put it out there in black and white. Damn it, I don’t want to admit this, but I need freaking reading glasses.

Ugh. Just the worst.

I guess it was about a year ago when I noticed something had…shifted. I would look at the back of DVD covers to see how long a particular movie was, but I couldn’t quite make out the numbers next to the minutes. I’d move the DVD closer and then further away and then closer to my face once again, but even when I squinted, I couldn’t read it clearly. I laughed it off.

“Oh, who can even read these DVD covers anyway? The type is so tiny!” which was then followed by an overly enthusiastic, hysterical laugh, and by “hysterical” I don’t mean funny; I mean characterized by actual hysteria.

As the months went by, I noticed that here and there I was having trouble seeing things up close. I couldn’t take a photograph and see what I was snapping on the screen clearly. I’d be in a restaurant and have difficulty reading the menu. And if there was dim mood lighting, forget about it. I joked about/seriously considered placing a magnifying glass by all the DVDs so I could read the print on the backs with ease.

I want to be clear about this though–I wear contacts for distance and have for 20 years. When I’m not wearing my contacts, I can see perfectly well up close (even though I can’t see three feet in front of me). It’s only when I’m wearing my contacts that I have trouble seeing nearby things.

I reasoned that the problem lie in my contact lenses. I convinced myself pretty adamantly that this was in fact the case. Until one day, my husband came along and ruined everything:

Me: “I really think I need a new prescription. These contacts are preventing me from seeing up close.”

My husband: “It has nothing to do with your contacts.”

Me: “What are you talking about? Of course it does. I see fine up close when I’m not wearing them.”

My husband: “Your eyes can’t accommodate anymore.”

Me: “Say what now?”

My husband: “Your eyes can’t accommodate. They can’t adjust quickly from distance to up close anymore.”

Me: “Oh yeah? Well, why is it just happening now? I’ve never had that problem before.”

My husband: “Because it happens as you age. You just need reading glasses.”

Me: *eye twitching*

Dreams: shattered. Delusions of grandeur: well, un-delusioned. How could this be? How am I old enough to need reading glasses?!? Who is that blurry person staring back at me in the mirror? I don’t even know anymore.

What would living with reading glasses even look like? How do you access your readers throughout the day without having them on your person at all times? I’m not going to carry them around in my hand or my purse and have to rifle through that all the time. That must be why people hang their readers on chains from their necks. Like librarians. And now apparently me. I totally get that now. It’s a nifty solution.

I know what you’re going to say. Just wear bifocals. That way you can see up close and far away at all times. Yeah, well, screw you. I’m not wearing bifocals.

So maybe one of these days while I’m at CVS picking up a few things, I might peruse the reading glasses at the end of the aisle. I’m not saying I’m going to BUY a pair, but maybe just see what’s up. I mean, plenty of twenty-year-olds wear readers. Right? RIGHT?!?

 

 

 

 

 

Sleep tight. Or not.

 

I have a feeling that this post is going to spark an online battle of the sexes, but you gotta crack a few eggs to make an omelet, am I right? And I am cracking. Real bad.

Yesterday was clean sheets day. I really like clean sheets day. I mean, I don’t love taking all the sheets off the beds, washing them, and remaking the beds, but I like going to sleep in a bed with sheets that have been freshly laundered.

What are my husband’s feelings about clean sheets day? He has none, as far as I know. That’s because I don’t think he ever actually realizes that it is clean sheets day since he’s not directly involved in any of the steps that make such a glorious day happen.

Until last night. At about 11 pm it was time to go to sleep, but as I walked into my bedroom, I realized that although I had laundered all the sheets, I hadn’t yet made up the bed. So as tired as I was, I took one for the team and not only put the sheets on the bed, but layered the appropriate blankets, pillows, etc. I was SO tired, though, that I did everything except sliding my husband’s pillow into the clean pillowcase. I just kind of threw the empty pillowcase on his side of the bed and settled in for the night.

I was feeling a little guilty that I didn’t complete the final step of clean sheets day, but that feeling was obliterated right quick once he came to bed. Why? Because instead of simply sliding his pillow into the clean pillowcase, he threw the pillowcase on the floor and made a conscious decision to SLEEP WITH NO PILLOW.

What madness is this?!? I was so confused. I couldn’t stay silent:

Me: “Aren’t you going to put the pillowcase on your pillow?”

Him: “No.”

Me: “What are you talking about? You’re not going to sleep with a pillow just because you don’t want to put the pillowcase on?”

Him: “Yup.”

Me: “WHAT?!? You’d rather be uncomfortable all night than take two seconds to put the pillowcase on??”

Him: “That is correct.”

Me: (stewing) “Well, I’m not going to put the pillowcase on. That’s ridiculous. So you’re going to have to sleep the entire week without a pillow.”

Him: “Ok.”

Me: *twitching*

This morning I made the bed but left his pillowcase-less pillow on the floor, with the pillowcase lying ON TOP of it.

I feel like I am revisiting the door sticker incident of 2013. But this time, I’m not giving in. I can do this. I CAN DO THIS. I can make the bed every morning without his pillow in its proper spot. I can just leave it on the floor with the pillowcase draped on top of it and it won’t bother me. Mark my words, IT WILL NOT BOTHER ME.

Ladies, I’m sure you’re with me. Gentleman, if you are like my husband, I don’t understand you.

 

Home sweet home

Back in the day, I was a HUGE X-Files fan. That is until I saw one particular episode called “Home,” and then I went off it completely. Cold turkey. No going back.

For those of you who didn’t catch that one, here’s the gist: These three brothers whose last name is Peacock live in this creepy old house. A deformed baby is found buried nearby, and Scully and Mulder are called in to see what’s up. The sheriff of the town, which is aptly named Home, implies that the Peacock family has been inbreeding for years, but there are only three brothers (who are deformed themselves) and no women living in the house. So, it’s hypothesized that the brothers have kidnapped a random woman, impregnated her, and, when she gave birth, buried the baby.

Well, it turns out that the brothers did not in fact kidnap a random woman and impregnate her. They are actually “breeding” with THEIR OWN MOTHER. Who has NO ARMS OR LEGS. Who also LIVES ON A SLED UNDERNEATH THE BED. I have tried my whole life to block out the scene in which this woman is discovered–where Scully and Mulder roll her out on her sled from under the bed–and it has HAUNTED me.

I believe two of the brothers were killed but the third one escaped with the mother. They were off to start a new inbred Peacock family together. The details are fuzzy because by the time I got to the end of the episode, I was pretty much curled up in a fetal position on the floor, rocking back and forth and weeping softly.

That was the last X-Files episode I watched until last year, when Fox rebooted the series and I figured since I was a grown up now, I might be able to handle it better. I got hooked, and now that a new season just started, I am similarly hooked. (Note: I will only watch episodes during the daytime hours. Shh, it’s a secret.)

So today I watched one of the most recent episodes, which had this amazing actress in it named Karin Konoval. She played twins, one of whom was a woman while the other one was a man, and she was fantastic. I only know her name because I Googled her and during my important research stumbled upon the fact that she portrayed Mrs. Peacock (legless! Armless! Lives on a sled under the bed!) all those years ago.

I found her on Twitter and decided I needed to write to her directly. I tweeted to her:

“You traumatized 12-year-old me in the Home episode of #TheXFiles but I finally forgive you after watching you as Judy/Chuck. You made me positively giddy with your awesomeness.”

I have to admit — I did this more for me than for her because I needed some closure from all that trauma she stirred up. I guess I needed to show myself that she was, after all, just acting and there was no armless, legless woman living on a sled under a bed in real life. At least I don’t think there is.

I sent the tweet and was about to x out of my research on her when I noticed something: The Home episode premiered in 1996. It got me to thinking. I was not, in fact, 12 years old as I initially recalled. I wasn’t 11 or even 13.

I WAS 20 YEARS OLD.

It appears that I was actually an adult at the time of that episode’s viewing and it also appears that I was a complete sissy.

In my defense, though, Fox never re-aired the episode because it was so insane and freaked people out so much. It wasn’t just me. But I can no longer use my age as a defense. I mean, I must have watched it in my dorm room in college. My memory is completely faulty, and I’m told as you age, that’s the second thing to go. I can’t remember the first. *Ba-dum tsssss.*

I’m going to go scream into a pillow now

 

The events of today have just about killed me. I am in such a state that I don’t know what to do with myself, so I’m going to rage blog and hope that by the time I’m done, I will no longer feel the need to destroy something.

My husband and I cleaned out our basement a week ago and decided to sell a bunch of things that we no longer needed, i.e. DVD player, old speakers, other components, etc. He put them on eBay and they sold. His part was done. My nightmare was just beginning.

Today was the day I had to send out six different boxes full of stuff. Some of the components needed brand new boxes, some had been stored in the original boxes but needed to be wrapped up in plain brown paper before they were mailed, others needed to be bubble wrapped and sealed up, you get the idea.

My day began bright and early at 9 am at Target, where I bought packing tape rolls, bubble wrap, plain brown paper for mailing, among some other things. Target didn’t have a big enough box for one of the items, so I hit the UPS store and spent even more money.

Two of the six packages were in my car. I went to the post office and mailed them. The third component we were selling was still in my car, unboxed and un-bubble-wrapped; I didn’t want to go home, box it all up, and go back to the post office, so I tried to tape up the new GIANT box and pack up the component in the back seat of my car. That didn’t work out too well. There wasn’t enough room. So after throwing out a few f-bombs, I went inside the post office and got it all done in there. Fine.

After lunch I wrapped up and boxed the other three items. It took FOREVER. I’m not even exaggerating. I had to shove the boxes full of bubble wrap, wrap them up with plain brown paper, cut down boxes to fit around the items more securely, I can’t even tell you how annoying this was. One hour later, I was done.

I had to get the boxes into the car. Did I mention they were like 50 lbs each? I pushed and I pulled and I managed to get them all in my trunk even though by this point my back was screaming at me and asking me WTF I thought I was doing lifting all this crap by myself.

I arrived at the post office. I went inside to ask for a cart. They provided one. I wheeled it out to my car, with some difficulty since the cart was at least 100 years old, and started to load the three giant boxes inside it. They wouldn’t all fit securely, but I was NOT making another trip for this, so I made it work. I had to wheel the stupid cart all the way to the side of the building where the sidewalk ramp was. I got stuck numerous of times. I ran over my foot with the wheel twice. One of the packages started to fall and I caught it in midair. I was swearing very loudly. The cart wheel got caught three times in sidewalk cracks and it almost killed me.

I finally got up to the door and this guy, who was talking on his phone via an earpiece, walked into the building a few feet ahead of me. He let the door close behind him. Yes, THIS MOTHERF*CKER DID NOT HOLD THE DOOR FOR ME. I was so enraged that I literally screamed out, “THANKS, DUDE!” sarcastically and waved at him.

A nice elderly lady witnessed the whole thing. I told her how rude the man was. She held open the door for me. She was nice.

I went to wait in line inside behind rude dude and texted my husband. I wrote things like, “I am seriously about to cry and then murder this asshole who slammed the door in my face,” as well as, “This is my second trip to the post office and I will need corrective surgery on my back when this is all said and done and I hope that YOU’RE HAPPY.”

And then rude guy gets off his phone call and has the AUDACITY to turn to me and say, “I was wondering how you were going to get all those boxes in here.”

WHAT. THE. F*CK.

I turned to him, flexed my bicep, and said, “I DID IT WITH OLD-FASHIONED MUSCLE.” Then I pounded his face.

No, I didn’t punch him, but I wanted to.

Then he thought it was a good idea to continue the conversation and said, “You wouldn’t have wanted me to help you anyway. You don’t want me near you.”

Again, I refrained from breaking his nose. I gritted my teeth and asked, “Why is that?” He proceeded to tell me that he’s had the flu, has lost 15 lbs., had a flu shot, but got sick from traveling on airplanes. Like I was interested in his life story.

At this point, I’m done. I can’t even with him. He goes up to the counter, does his business, and then makes a point of saying goodbye to me before he walks out the door. I’m not sure what part of my body language, attitude, or spoken words encouraged him into thinking we had some kind of friendly relationship, but apparently that’s what he got from me.

I think that’s about it. I hope the rest of the day is better. I think I’ll go fill a bathtub full of ice cubes and get this swelling in my back to go down.

 

It’s on like Donkey Kong

I didn’t have a photo of me from class, but this is pretty much what I look like when I’m doing Krav Maga.

I don’t want to alarm anyone, but I’m kind of dangerous now. I enrolled in Krav Maga, so you can pretty much bring it on at any time. Just kidding, don’t bring it on because I’ve only attended three classes so far.

For those of you who aren’t familiar, Krav Maga is a military self-defense and fighting system developed by the Israeli Defense Forces. It utilizes techniques from boxing, wrestling, Judo, Karate, and street fighting. It’s basically opening a can of whoop-ass on somebody.

Things are going okay so far. One of the problems I’ve encountered though is that I look absolutely hideous in the outfit they’ve given me for class. Everything is way oversized and I have such a small frame that it just does not work on me. I went up to the owner on the second day of class and had a conversation that went like this:

Me: “So do we have to wear the pants you gave us to class?”

Him: “Um…why?”

Me: “Because they’re falling off me.” (This is kind of a lie; the elastic waist is fine, but the rest of the pant is gigantic and extremely unflattering and I really, really cannot be seen in public like this.)

Him: “They’re supposed to be big. It’s so you can move around easily.”

Me: “Okay, but do I have to wear them??”

Him: (looking confused, because I have no doubt that I am the first person who has brought this up to him ever and he has his black belt in Krav Maga and I am positive that he just can’t even with me.) “Well, you should wear them every once in a while.”

Me: “Okay! Thanks!” (skipping into class)

The other problem that I’ve encountered is that I pretty much vacillate between hungering to be the toughest, most brutal student in the class and being scared out of my mind of some of the other students who are giant men.

For example, today we did a drill in which one person holds a bag (it’s like a cushion with handles) and the other person punches the bag. At the end of the drill, I see the instructor handing out Band-Aids. Some guys punched the bag so hard that they split their knuckles open and started bleeding. I was pissed because apparently I did not work hard enough; my knuckles were red and irritated, but not yet cracking. Fortunately, later in the afternoon, I did notice a bruise on my hand, which made me feel slightly better, but I can’t quite let go of today’s subpar performance.

There are also times, however, in which I’m terrified and want to collapse into a fetal position and start crying. Like there are these drills where everyone in the class has to attack you and it is literally a nightmare come true. The instructor also encourages us to look menacing during a particular drill if we are the attacker. When one of the giant man-students that is typically super nice and jokey with me turns into scary attacker man, I kind of have a panic attack. And end up saying something like, “Wow, you look really scary!” or something similar that I’m hoping will cut some of the tension.

Otherwise, I am really enjoying Krav Maga. It’s a great workout and it’s way more fun than doing a muted YouTube work-out video by myself in my house while watching The Golden Girls. I’m hoping my husband reads this post, as he believes all I do in class is run around on mats, putting myself in a fighting stance and screaming, “KRAV MAGA!” at the top of my lungs over and over.

It’s ok if you pretend you don’t know me

 

I’m not really sure what to do as I recently made it so that I can never show my face in my kid’s school again. This will most likely pose a problem for his upcoming band concert performance. And basketball season. And every school-related event ever over the next two years.

Here’s how it went down:

Parent/teacher conferences were last week. For the first time, my kid had to lead the entire conference while his teacher and my husband and I all sat around a table in his classroom. He was a little uneasy because, duh, but I kept telling him it was NBD. He can easily talk to his dad and myself. He can easily talk to his teacher. The conference was just combining the two easy-peasy interactions into one and he’d be totally fine.

On the night of the conference, my kid did his thing and it was great. Then it was time for him to go out into the hall while we had a few minutes alone with his teacher.

So he goes out through the classroom door and closes it. I start to say something or other to his teacher. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the door slowly cracking open. I decide my kid is trying to be sneaky and listen in, and in a clear, loud voice I shout, “CLOSE THE DOOR!” I mean, can you believe the nerve?

And then the door opens even further and a head that is not my kid’s pops into the classroom. To my utter HORROR I realize I am staring straight at the principal.

Yup, that’s right, I screamed at my kid’s principal and I cannot even convey to you how much self-control was needed in that moment not to vomit all over the table in front of me.

I look at my husband and I believe his reaction is best conveyed by this emoji:

Which was in no way helpful.

I panicked because, well, have you met me?, and screamed at the principal, “OH NO! YOU don’t have to close the door!” And then I think I actually cackled.

I looked at the teacher and was about to literally die where I was sitting, but instead of dying I whispered to her, “I can’t believe I just yelled at the principal!” to which she responded, “At least it wasn’t me!”

Again, not helpful.

It turns out the principal just came in to engage in some playful banter about both my kids who were sitting in the hallway. Instead of bantering playfully, however, I completely sullied my reputation, that of my children as well as the millions of generations that have come before me and will come after me. I am not even exaggerating.

So the next time you think you’ve committed a faux pas, please take comfort in the fact that no matter what you have done, it will never be worse than what I did on school conference night. And for those of you who I usually run into at school, I will see you after graduation.

 

I know you are but what am I…infinity!

Last night I finished reading the most FANTASTIC novel called Infinite by Jeremy Robinson. It contained all of my interests:

  • Cryogenic sleep gone awry (very awry, muwahahahaha)
  • Various references to Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise
  • Conjecture about what humans will look like thousands of years from now
  • A person who’s gone madder than Deanna Troi that time she lost her Betazoid telepathic abilities (if you don’t know by now that I’m talking about Star Trek: The Next Generation, then I can’t imagine we have anything at all in common.)
  • Science-y talk that seems to be legit but isn’t so hard that you need a Ph.D. in physics to follow it
  • Brains in vats! For the unfamiliar, there’s this philosophical theory about reality that proposes someone (who may or may not be a mad scientist) has actually taken your brain out of your head, placed it in a vat filled with life-sustaining liquid, and hooked it up to a supercomputer that triggers electrical impulses to make you think you’re actually feeling/seeing/smelling/etc. your environment. Basically, everything you experience is a simulation, and in reality, all you are is a brain in a vat! OMG!

I loved this book so hard that when I read the notes from the author at its conclusion, and saw that he was asking readers to post reviews because it would really help him out, I was all, “YES! I will post a review because this book is not only awesome, but I’d like to help a brother out.”

Then I got to thinking: A book review? I don’t know how to write a book review! Who do I think I am?!?

Then I got to thinking even more: Well, I have written five books. I think I’d probably be capable of writing a book review.

Followed by: Yeah, I can write a book, but a book review?!? That’s an entirely different animal! How long should it be? How much should I give away? How do you summarize over 300 pages of awesomeness in one compact blurb?

And then I wrote this blog post which is kind of a book review but mostly about my insecurities. Do with that what you will.

But the takeaway is — READ INFINITE! You will not be disappointed! (That’s my one-line book review and it really, really sucks. I’ll stick to my day job.)

Pee Wee image from Postimage.

 

I’ll take my movies without a side of zombies

I am psychologically, emotionally, and physically drained.

Why? Because of a stupid movie called Maze Runner: Scorch Trials. I just finished watching this abomination and it has put me into such a state that I am never sleeping again.

You should know that this movie is based on The Maze Runner series. Which was written for young adults. And which I have read. So you’d think I’d know what was coming and watching this movie would be no big deal because it’s for, you know, kids.

Nope nope nope. I guess the only thing I remembered from the series when I read it a few years ago was that there were a bunch of teenagers stuck in a maze. Apparently, I forgot that the book (and, consequently, the movie) contains all of my fears:

  1. People being chased.
  2. People being chased by zombies.
  3. People being chased by zombies while a building that they’re in is collapsing around them.

I do not watch zombie movies because zombies up the trauma factor of any said movie by one million.

For example, I like Brad Pitt. I enjoy watching Brad Pitt movies. Yet you couldn’t pay me to watch his movie World War Z because it is about zombies. Specifically, zombies chasing Brad Pitt, or so I’ve gathered from previews.

Imagine my surprise as I’m sitting there watching this movie and everything’s going fine until the first jump scare is a freaking zombie jumping out of pitch black darkness. Then more zombies jump out and there is a swarm of them. And then they start chasing everybody. For like two hours.

The entire time I am freaking SCREAMING, saying things to my husband like, “WTF I didn’t know this was a horror movie!?!” and “How are there zombies in this?!? I don’t remember zombies from the book…” and “Did you know this was about zombies?!? I didn’t know this was about zombies! I would have NEVER watched this if I knew it was about zombies!” in addition to, “I’m having chest pains.”

I mean, I was so freaked out before watching The Sixth Sense. On a scale of 1 to 10 of traumatizing me, it was like a 4, while Maze Runner is a freaking 27. How did this movie happen to me?

Only one good thing came of this. There was a surprise gun shot that nobody was expecting and as soon as the gun went off, I slid down real low into the couch in a nanosecond. It turns out that I have a kick ass gunshot reflex that would serve me well in a post-apocalyptic society. So there’s that.

Okay, seven hours to go until morning. It’s going to be a long night.

Image from Uber Humor.