Nothing to Fear But...

Giles: Don't taunt the fear demon.
Xander: Why? Can he hurt me?
Giles: No, it's just...tacky.
- Buffy the Vampire Slayer, "Fear, Itself"

Whoops. No entry last night. Got a little sidetracked after Buffy last night, and never managed to post. So much for self discipline.

When I was a kid, I used to be afraid of big dogs. There were a lot of them in my neighborhood, but the one that terrified me to no end was Shadow, the German shepherd across the street. He barked at everything, and I remember at one time someone told me he was a retired attack dog. I'm sure this was just a colorful tale told by the kids on the block, but when you're six and a large dog is straining at his leash, barking ferociously, it sure as hell seems true.

One time when I was playing at the neighbor's house, he broke his chain and got loose. And since we all know at that age that dogs can smell fear, he headed straight for me, ready to rip my throat out. OK, not really. He did run circles around me, barking maniacally at me the entire time. I responded in my usual manner. I burst into a wailing sob until his owner restrained him.

I have outgrown my fear of big dogs. I have a friend who owns a Rottweiler the size of a Mack truck, and urban legend says that the dog still has a bullet lodged in his head from when he attacked, was shot, and kept on coming. Charlie is one of the sweetest dogs I've ever met, and I had no problems with the fact that he chose to sleep in my room on a camping trip a few years ago. Another friend of mine has a female pit bull terrier who loves me to death, and has never intimidated me. (Of course, I've never given either of these dogs reason to be aggressive towards me.)

But still, I have my irrational fears. Things I know I have no reason to be afraid of, but for some reason I cannot shake. One of them I rediscovered Monday afternoon at the movies (Bless the Child with JohnnyB). There's a scene where Kim Basinger's car goes careening into the side of a bridge, breaking through the guardrail, and ends up hanging precariously over the looooooong drop into the water. You know the scenario. One muscle twitch, and the driver's going to freefall into whatever river the bridge spans. This scene bothered me more than anything else in the movie. During this tense moment in the movie, I was attempting to recall the emergency instructions I'd seen on a news report years ago. I was freaking out.

Now seriously folks, what are the chances of me going out like this? Why did this scene make me break out in a cold sweat? Maybe it was because I remember driving over the Sunshine Skyway with my family a few months after the accident back in 1980. (Obviously, we were driving on the span that did not have a 1200 foot gap in it.) It was creepy as hell. I was looking out the window at the parallel bridge, and then it just STOPPED. At this point, my brain realized how far above Tampa Bay we were, and I started panicking. Just looking at the pictures on the link still gives me the weebies. Yikes.

I also have an irrational fear of sharp objects. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's because I'm a klutz and I'm sure that if you ask me to peel the vegetables with that razor shap knife, I just know I'm going to cut myself and end up bleeding all over the potatoes. Me + Exacto knife = bad mix. I'm just convinced that it'll slip out of my hand or whoever's hand is holding said pointy thing and will end up embedded in my leg (or somewhere more lethal). I think I've watched too many bad horror movies or something. (Guess who didn't see Phantasm? Flying steel sphere with all kinds of pointiness coming out? No thanks.)

But the worst (and albeit, probably the most irrational) fear that I have is the fear of being alone. (Warning: "Poor little me" whining ahead. Proceed at your own risk.) I don't have it all the time; I enjoy my own company and can usually find some way to amuse myself. But every once in a while, I find myself thinking that everyone I know has better things to do than put up with me, and I'm going to end up being one of those crazy ladies with 87 cats that dies alone and the cops can't get in because there's newpapers from the last 15 years blocking the door.

Ridiculous. Completely self-centered, pessimistic, and stupid. But sometimes I think that way. This past weekend a bunch of my friends went camping, and I didn't know why no one was returning my phone calls. I figured it was something I did, and drove myself crazy all Sunday trying to figure out where I screwed up.

And then there's the whole romance thing. Yeah, I'm a hopeless romantic, and while I'd like to think that somewhere out there is this fabulous wonderful guy that will worship the ground I walk upon with out being stalker-esque, sometimes I wonder if I blew it years ago and didn't even realize it. What if it was that guy who gave me his number at Club Paradise back in July 1987 that I could never manage to arrange a date with? What if that was it, and I'm doomed to a life of Mr. Not-Quite-Rights? We're back to the cat lady scenario again, and I don't like it.

Yes, I know I'm overreacting, but sometimes I wonder when it's my turn for the damn fairy tale. Just because I'm a hopeless romantic doesn't mean the emphasis has to be on the "hopeless" part.

Bitch, bitch, bitch. B-O-O H-O-O, poor little me. I make Morrissey look like a happy kind of guy.

Actually, I'm in a pretty good mood, but this whiny crap has been kicking around in my head for a while and I thought it would be better to get it out so I can get on with my life. Maybe after hitting fresh air, it will decay away and die.

OK. Enough wallowing in self-pity. I'm going out. Time to take my misery and grind it into the dance floor.

But if someone sees me dancing and singing along to "How Soon is Now?" just smack me, OK? Or just sic a large dog wielding a big knife on me.