I’m sitting here permanently scarred by a show my husband was watching on TV. As soon as I finish this little message of terror I’m going to find me a really dark corner and crawl into it and cry for my Mommy and my blankey as I suck my thumb. Yes I have rediscovered my thump during this very traumatic experience.
Now here’s the thing. My wonderful, extremely helpful, most often considerate hubby doesn’t read my stories because they are scary. Are you kidding me? Does he not find this horrific program scary? I mean you have dead bodies and people talking about what they do to them. Now I know that the show is basically a public service thing, to me it is nothing but a scary show, and I’m sure it serves a purpose. I mean I guess you have to drum up people to donate their bodies to science but I just find it creepy.
Now I know for someone who writes horror stories I should be able to handle this. I do know that it serves a purpose but really? I mean to me it wasn’t much more than a commercial for body donations. Save that stuff for when I’m on my death bed in a hospital and stick a piece a paper under my nose that I have no idea what it is and then maybe I’ll sign it but please Buddy don’t make me watch this. It scares me. I just made him home made chocolate chip cookies too.
I’ve decided my hubby is a meany and now I’m finding that corner and crawling into it. If my Mommy does show up I’ll be happy to see her after I get over fainting from seeing dead people.
I forgot how much of a comfort my thumb was. “Mommy is that you?”