After watching Se7en, the movie that ended with Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in a box (spoiler alert,sorry), I decided that everyone was trying to kill me. With my eye sockets stretched wide open and my jaw muscles tight, I walked home through my quaint, well-lit neighborhood with my keys interlaced between my fingers, because keys that resemble goth-punk jewelry can obviously also kill psychotic mass murderers.
Everyday events became part of a giant conspiracy theory – a cosmic joke meant to show me that every horror film and ghost story I had been told was true. That police officer in Golden Gate Park? Yes, he really IS a ghost and yes, he really HAS been dead 10 years and is trying to suck the soul out of my esophagus as we speak. That huge flyer for an 18 and over club left on my back windshield? That’s obviously a scheme to make me get out of my car and when vulnerable, and then get bludgeoned by teenage mobsters who will cut my Achilles tendons, taunt me to run, and then drive my car away, leaving me in a Safeway parking lot with spoiled milk and non-functioning ankles.
I have a really vivid imagination.
This also affected my dining habits when in public. ‘Please sir, don’t buy me a drink. There may be a tasteless and odorless poison in that.‘ And then there was, ‘Does this pizza taste like bleach to you?’
After about a month, the recurring images of Kevin Spacey killing obese people with cans of spaghetti (why is it ALWAYS Kevin Spacey?) dissipated, and I slept without my extra sharp butter knife under my pillow. But seriously – please never ask me to go see I Know What You Did Last Summer 4 with you.