I love haunted houses. Like. So much. So so so much. Why aren't they open all year? I'll never understand. I have this really clear memory of being in middle school, reading about a haunted house in the newspaper one day. For some reason the attraction was closing that night or something, and I was el bummed of course. No one was free, it was a school night, etc. etc. But my mom was just super caj and all, "I'll take you." And she did! We donned jeans and headed to this dinky but creepy haunted house in a series of trailers. My mom sat at a picnic table with some paperwork, and I did my social studies homework in line until it was time to go in. I walked through alone, soaking up every drop of blood, every creep with a mask. I came out, and my mom was drinking hot chocolate. She had one for me too. She asked how it was. I told her my favorite parts, but I left out the things that would churn her stomach.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
My mom hates all things frightening. When I was growing up sometimes I could sense her confusion as she walked past me curled up watching Lady in White for the twelfth time or examining a dead possum with just a touch too much enthusiasm. But it's who I was, and my mom shrugged it off like, "I dunno maybe she'll grow out of or into being a weirdo. Yolo?"