I feel like Im Han Solo, and youre Chewie, and shes Ben Kenobi, and were in that fucked-up bar.

Ugh. I hate when I am the recipient of "I told you so" but, he told me so. The nightmarish landscape of my overstimulated brain kept me up late thinking about prickly things and also fire. Let is be said right here, right now, if you have to kill it, best you kill it with fire. Always. I insisted on watching the movie Splinter last night, about some parasite that attaches itself to living things and then proceeds to kill shit, look creepy, NOT celebrate holidays. My fiance does not appreciate my fascination with horror flicks BUT PAY THAT NO MIND, I still watch the fuck out of them because, secretly, I know he loves to be scared as much as me. Ok. Secretly I do not know this, but I have my suspicions. Actually, I suspect he truly does hate them BUT ITS FUCKING TIARA TIME AND I WANTED TO SEE SOME BLOOD AND GUTS FLYING ABOUT, MATE!!!
*sniff*
I just wanted to see some blood and guts flying about, mate
*sniff*
So any ways, Splinter sucked. Basic basic basic plot run down: Scary bloody thing, unrelated hostage situation, a gas station, scary bloody thing traps everyone in the gas station, blood and guts, everyone is friends, fire, BOOM.
It wouldn't have been so bad had the ending not fizzled out like 2 week flat soda pop. Not recommended. The movie, that is; flat soda, on the other hand, is très magnifique!

In addition to random nocturnal musings involving creatures that crack my bones, I was also convinced I was not waking up in the morning on account of heart seizure. It sounds more dramatic than I actually (day) dreamt it happening though, as I assumed my parasympathetic nervous system was gonna just malfunction. Stop working. Fuck the dog. Give up. Surrender. Cash in. This paranoia caused me to stare at the ceiling willing my heart to pump, pretty much all night long. I can report, with a sleepy smile, all is well this morning. I woke up. I exist. Still. Yay.

It is fun being overly paranoid. Fun for the whole family, in fact. I am sure the significant other revels in promises he must keep hours and days after my death. The rituals that must take place, the things that must be burned and destroyed, the items that must be hidden (scavenger hunt FTW!). I just hope that the mailman learns to avoid my booby traps and the neighbors are comfortable with my nocturnal activities.
Lots of people dig underground hideouts in their backyards at 3am, right?

FUCK YOU PSYCHOTIC LOOKING CRACKED BONES DOG, YOU AREN'T GONNA STICK YOUR SPLINTER THINGS IN ME!!

I totally need a flame thrower.