Where I Screamed My Head Off

People are way too serious about death. I am serious about death. It hurts, it's unfair, it's scary as hell, it's despiteful, all that's true. But sometimes the only way to get through it is to recognize the ridiculous in the horrible. Because what will it all matter in a hundred years. Because life is silly. Because we're all just temporary. And because what else can you do.

I say a lot of times that while I am hopeful and a great believer of God’, I am also a realist. I don’t do fantasy or make-believe. I know cancer. Not all of it though but I know it’s alive and vicious, will go to remission for awhile but fired back at an instant.

So while I am at where I am at, I could use some breathing space, right?

So my house looked like this last Monday.

Meet the audience: a son, daughter, few nephews, nieces,
and a bunch of neighbors's kids. 

Me: What the hell is going on in there?

Kid: Ma, manood tayo ng Conjuring

Me: Is it okay?

Kid: ….

Me: **covers all the mirrors**

So I’m sitting there next to my little girl with pillow on her face. I even saw the beginning of it but I had to ask again and again if the ghost will appear yet. Now, normally my philosophy about everything concerning ghost movies is "If I can't see it, it's not my problem."

But of course, my older nephew leapt at the opportunity to regale us with the plot of the movie.

"Well, you see, they moved in that creepy house and that's where the dog would back all day. Before she will be discovered dead the next day. You can see where the tapping is heard, all because that’s where the killing happened..."

Half an hour later, we were all screaming. I think my uterus ruptured, or my eggs cracked. I don't know.

Once everyone was able to calm down and stop shrieking, after a few seconds of silence we would burst into screaming again.

Now I can't stop thinking about that cellar scene. It’s where the possessed Carolyn out to get the child and Patrick Wilson with his Elvis-like flip haircut and sideburns, is stuck in a hole saying his exorcism rites while Vera Farmiga’s Liberace-style collar ruffles is lulling her to think of their best time as a family.

So there.

I feel like I could be a good movie critic, though, because while other critics will give you intellectual point-by-point breakdowns on things like story arc and character development, I base my evaluations on emotional impact alone. Did I laugh? Did I cry? Did I sink into a near-death phasmophobia or extreme fear of ghosts and require six months of bi-weekly visits with a psychologist afterwards before I could sleep through the night again?

Oh I love you and hate you, Conjuring.

You scared the hell out me.