As everyone who knows me should know, I’m incredibly paranoid.
A Do Not Enter sign? Oh, there must be an axe-wielding murderer behind it.
A traveller on the side of the road? He’s going to skin me and then make some weird Buffalo Bill bodysuit out of it.
An attic? That’s where we keep the cadavers.
Someone’s trying to hug me? They must have some ulterior motive–it’s likely that they’re going to chloroform me and then steal my kidney, á la Charlie the Unicorn, for anyone who remembers said internet sensation.
It may just be that that’s how my mind works, but I have another theory. My other theory is this: I watch too much television.
MI-5 (Which will soon be the subject of another post), Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly, and, to a much lesser extent, How I Met Your Mother, have all taught me that you can never trust who you can think you can trust, and that something is always about to go horribly wrong. And when I say horribly wrong, I’m not talking about little, tiny wrong, I’m talking about “Oh my [expletive deleted], the World is exploding into large bowls of pistachio ice cream!” wrong.
Of course, this is not to say that I’m completely distrustful of everyone. I have complete trust in several parties, and a lesser degree of trust in a greater number of parties. It’s just that, if I don’t know you, or if you have a habit of being untrustworthy, I’l automatically assume you’re planning on taking me out to the back garden and shooting me right between the eyes.
It’s not one of my better character traits, but, to quote the ever amazing Jonathan Larson, may he rest in peace: “Take me for who I am/who I was meant to be/And if you give a damn/take me baby, or leave me.”
Oh yeah. I went there.