Not the night for a hot date. Not the night for a mind blowing meal. Not the night I launch something wonderful into the world.
Tonight, I'm going to finish Something Wicked This Way Comes if it freaking kills me.*
It probably will. It's already killing me via freaking. I've been reading it for weeks and weeks—months, if you want to get specific—and as I mentioned, it's both killer and freaky.
But my problems with this book seem to stretch beyond the words themselves. This is by far and away the most uncomfortable, alarming book I've ever read. The horror isn't exactly insidious, but it's not obvious either.
And yet my degree of terror seems disproportionate. It suggests that I must have read this in some crucial moment of my childhood when I was particularly sensitive to such terrors. And that raw nerve has stayed with me all this time, waiting to be hit by this second, but no less inexplicably terror-inducing reading.
I don't know. It's just a theory. But tonight I'm going to pour a rum, turn on all the lights, cuddle teddy** and finish this damned book.
*Yes, that *is* a man drinking lava on the cover. Not tea. LAVA.
**Kidding. I think. Man, maybe I better start looking for a teddy.
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