On one of my most recent trips home, I had stayed up half the night reading suspense/murder mystery novels. The next morning, I woke up in my pitch-black room to find an unidentifiable person reaching out to me.
I screamed, convinced I was about to be murdered in a horrific fashion, and then I burst into tears. Roughly two seconds later, I realized it was just my mother.
Mom: I’m so sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s okay, you’re okay.
Me: I thought you were going to murder me!
Mom: I wanted to kiss you goodbye! I guess you’re not used to that, being up at college.
Me: I just saw this shape looming over me, and I was reading those SJ Bolton books, and I thought you were going to kill me.
Mom: I’m sorry.
On the bright side, I know what I’ll do if anyone tries to murder me. On the downside, it’s really pathetic. It’s a good thing I have no shame. And who knows? Maybe my murderer will take pity on me. After all, where’s the fun in murdering someone who’s hysterical? Or maybe that is the fun? I don’t know. I’m not a murderer, so I’m probably not the best person to ask.
I have no idea what I'm doing.