Ringu

Last night, Jon forced me to watch The Ring. This wouldn't be in any way remarkable, except for the fact that we both loathe horror movies. He's the kind of guy who will call me up three times to remind me to bring Four Weddings and a Funeral when I come over, and I'm the kind of girl who really enjoys not being forced to watch stupid action movies, or movies that make me clutch things. I like horror movies, but only when they're of the variety that you might see featured on a Mystery Science Theater 3000 re-run. And yes, I am a dork for having made that reference. He has a meeting with one of the producers of the film, so he can't admit to being one of the ten people on earth not to have seen it. I was perfectly content being one of those ignorant ten, but having rashly promised, I couldn't back out. We realised that it was the most ridiculous situation on earth-- a girl who doesn't like horror movies being forced to watch one for the sake of her boyfriend-- but then HE doesn't even like horror movies! What blatant stupidity!

The movie itself wasn't as bad as it was hyped up to be, though there was a lot of clutching of Jon's arm and yelling at him when I discovered he had dared to fall asleep and leave me spiritually ALL ALONE in his room. His room is not the sort to take fright at, ordinarily, but it is endowed with two closets, and everybody knows that closets are portals to imaginary other dimensions, where vague creepy things lurk. There are also a fair amount of hiding places for evil bugs, disembodied hands, and other things of that ilk.

My problems really started when the movie was over and we prepared to go to sleep. Jon, of course, passed out immediately, but all my previous exhaustion had morphed into an extreme need to twitch. Lying there, muscles spasming at random, as Jon happily smacked his lips and burrowed deeper under the blankets, I tried to think soothing thoughts. I focused on my navel, slowed my breathing, began to visualise all the tension flowing out of my body in one calm stream and-- the girl in the movie was horrendously creepy. But, you know, she wasn't nearly creepy enough. I wonder what would have been creepier.

Breathe. Release tension.

Her feet were awful and white. I hate people who are that dead-looking pale colour. Why did the little boy have to be creepy as well? He was like a more satanic Damien.

Breathe. Release. My feet are cold.

you know it's kind of awful that my feet reach over the edge of the bed when I lie like this and there's that awful gap between the bottom of the bed and the floor and what if something were to just reach up and--

Breathe. Think calm thoughts.

This went on for a while, devolving into a half-dream with cold hands and a creepy blank-eyed japanese girl from some other movie I've been forced to watch. I finally completely popped awake at 4:30 in the morning, desperate to go to the bathroom, but too afraid to leave the little island of the bed. Besides, the bathroom would involve... a journey past a shower curtain.

I really do hate scary movies, really. But even more than that, I curse my completely overactive, psychotic imagination.