Scared Shitless

I like writing, well, not really writing, per se, I also like typing, in fact, I prefer typing and I am quite a capable typist as my High School strived hard to teach its student the ancient art of typing using the ancient instrument called Pica and another less ancient one whose name I have forgotten--a smaller, lighter model, much easier to handle and renders much less damage to the little pinky should it slide underneath the SHIFT KEY as it is wont to do after some minutes of typing in a room full of other typists breathing heavily the warm afternoon air--because I had the luck or misfortune of not being assigned to one.  I landed with the PICA sitting right in front of the teacher, Mrs Trinidad, I think, tall woman, good strong stance, curly likely combative hair (combats straightening shampoos, blow-driers, iron, etc).  Yes, I am fond of writing, as such, I write about everything, like that one instance when Leia and I decided to have  walk at about 4 pm--it had looked like it was already 6 pm, the snow was glowing eerily, a strange kind of blue punctuated by yellow and some brown (art work from resident dogs) when we heard a yell.  It sounded like a yell.  From experience, I expected to see a bunch of kids (adolescents) doing the primitive form of mating dance, courtship, that is, teasing with hints of aggression, the kind you see insects display, like the praying mantis, for example, but alas!  We found a lone woman walking hurriedly, hunched as if recovering from a kick in the stomach, and gripping her phone in a vice-like grip.  She was weeping.  She called someone and though I could not understand what she was saying, I understood the agony in her words--she had screamed them.  I felt like an intruder.  Leia felt... well, she looked comfortable in her seat.  I had wanted to go to her and tell her she was strong, whatever it was, she was stardust, she, well, the atoms that made her up, were 436 billions years old, she could handle this (although whoever had hurt her this bad was also made up of atoms of the same age, I would not have mentioned this), but I couldn't have talked to her.  For one thing, it would have had been a horrible crime to have had invaded on someone's privacy, second, I could not speak the languages she understood (there is body language, but surely, you think a weeping woman on the run would have time for a game of charades?)  Oh, I almost forgot, I had wanted to write about horror movies/series/films/plays/MGB...  Oh yeah, that program with Noli de Castro was a great loss, indeed.  It's surely worth more than the Vice-Presidency.  Come of think of it, doesn't the name Noli sound strange?  Was he named after the book?  If that is really the case, then wouldn't his name really mean:  Not de Castro?  If you're Spanish and you ask like this: "Are you Not de Castro?"  Would he then say:  "Yes, I am Not de Castro"?  So much for writing about horrific things.  Anyway, I always found The Possessed 1 (aka The Exorcist--it was really about the possessed, wasn't it?  The possessed one had more airtime--if it were a TV show, but it's not, however, I do not know the proper term for films so airtime would have to do) to be scariest.  Then there's Night of the Living Dead by none other than Giorgio Armani.  Haha!  Then there's...what was it?  Damn.  The Running Dead?  The one film that started the running zombies.  That was like bending the rules of physics but it panned out.  Running zombies were much much much scarier.  Resident Evil doesn't count.  That movie is more in the league of Spider Man the Return of Batman Begins the Fantastic Iron Man.  Hmmm... I've bored myself.  I think I will write about sad songs now.