Friday the 13th

Woohoo!

Did I ever tell you I was born on Friday the 13th? Mhm. I was.

I was brought into the world on the most appropriate of days. A day associated with homicidal maniacs who wear weird masks with little holes in them that serve no apparent purpose other than to allow the skin to breathe, which doesn't seem to be that much of an issue when you can guess what's under the mask, and, believe me, it's not skin you would see in an Oil of Olay commercial--it's decaying and scarred and smelly and might as well just fall off the face if we're looking for aesthetic value. . . hmm. . . maybe that's the point: the mask is ventilated to allow the smell to seep out so the victims have a warning that a homicidal maniac dressed in bloody rags, carrying old-fashioned, rusty weapons like chains and swords, is headed their way, prepared to kill them slowly, one limb at a time, because it's more fun when the victim is trying to crawl away, pulling herself with the arm that hasn't been cut off because her legs are gone too, and you get to see that look of panic and despair, and wonder why she's even still trying, until the weirdo in the mask--who happens to have a normal name, which is anticlimactic, if you ask me. Who wants to think of a homicidal maniac named "Bob" or "Jimmy"? You don't. You want to call out, "Oh no! The big hairy sperm-filled trucker who kills people by running them over with a semi is coming!" or "Help! The low-level bureaucrat of death is trying to kill me!"--finally lops her head off.

*sigh* Happy Friday the 13th, everyone! And remember, if you want to make fun of a horror movie, pick one you've never seen before. I've certainly enjoyed the experience.