For real, though. I was maybe five or six years old that fateful Fall. My mom and I were carving pumpkins at the kitchen table, and my dad was watching television. It was almost Halloween, so scary movies were blowing up the TV, and the one my dad had landed on was Poltergeist.
Of course my little eyes couldn’t help but watch, and boy oh boy was I sorry. Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to a five-year-old, seeing a kid get wrapped up in his own braces? It combines braces–the universal symbol for childhood geekiness and embarrassment–with DEATH. Or near death. I don’t know if the kid actually died, because my scarred psyche blocked the rest of the movie out and I’ve never watched it again.
I spent days quivering, crying, and sleeping in my parents bed while repeatedly telling them, “I can’t stop thinking about it!” I literally have never been more panic-stricken in my entire life than walking down the street that Halloween, clinging to my mom’s hand, 100% sure that a braces monster or giant demon slug was lurking in every drain, just waiting to bite my ankle.
Long story short, my dad thought he had accidentally warped my brain and my parents almost sent me to therapy. Like, literally. Not the worst idea for a child having a two-week panic attack.
Maybe this is why I hate scary movies?
Your (probably) not mentally warped friend,