The Art of Being Scared

I once called 911 four times in one night. On the second call I actually let the cops in. My life tends to be a little like the movie "Home Alone" minus the comedy, well, and the robbers. I spent a whole night of my life standing at my kitchen window surveying passing cars just to make sure one of them didn't hold a psychopathic killer. When I decided the cars were no threat I convinced myself that there was already someone in my house. Then I starting harassing the 911 operators. The first call I hung up, the second phone call I told the operator that I thought someone was in my house. When she asked why, I couldn't answer. Why the hell did I think someone was in my house? I think I had left a window open that day, and of course if you live in my world, that means that at some point of the day when you weren't paying enough attention, someone climbed in and hid themselves so later they could cut you into pieces, or rape you, or something along those lines. When the cops finally showed up I realized that I should have cleaned up before that second phone call, asked the operator to give me a few minutes, "Can you just tell the police that I need to dust and shove some dirty laundry into the laundry room, I would really hate for someone to see a crime scene in the mess I have going on right now." I remember them searching the whole house and when they decided my house was safe I made them check the ceiling tiles of my basement. At that point, I can only imagine, that the two cops were convinced that I was the only crazy person in my house. They still followed my request, and with the shine of a flash light they left. Maybe that is my problem, I'm always searching for a killer instead of running away from him. My last two phone calls involved some shaking, crying, and me apologizing to the operator, who at this point was more than annoyed, like my phone calls about a crazed non existent person in my house was the reason that McDonald's got her order wrong earlier that day. The more I apologized the more I found myself hoping that if I did die that night that they would take pictures to her of my brutal murder and my grieving family...tell her that if maybe she would have been more attentive to my phone calls then maybe I would still be alive. I'd like to think that if she were little nicer I could have called back the next night, and somehow we could have became friends. She would call me when she was stressed out about all of the horrifying phone calls she had, and I could council her, help her through it somehow. In return she would call to check in on me at night when things were slow, maybe we would even do lunch,start spending holidays together, my kids would call her "auntie (what ever her name was)". Instead, I stopped calling 911. I will make a note to myself to remember to put it in my will that if I'm ever murdered or raped that someone should send pictures to that call center.

I occupy my time counting knives and hiding things like hair straighteners (which I told everyone about in my first blog) I like to hide my camera. That way whoever decides to hurt me cant take video or account the brutality with pictures. I always wake up in the morning and make sure that there aren't any pictures of me sleeping. You never know when some crazed lunatic might take the opportunity for a photo shoot with a victim to be, I make sure to sleep in pajama pants and a sweat shirt just in case this happens. Sometimes I consider doing my hair, or going to bed with a little make up on, a girl hates a bad picture. Pin up curls, fake eyelashes and some lip color, nothing extravagant. Some cutesy pajamas,all white with cherries on them, and maybe some heels, its been a while since Ive had a pedicure. I really should start sleeping with shoes on. My family might even laugh about it later, at family dinners, nearly choking on their food, giggling about the night I died with my Jimmy choo's and cherry pajamas."Oh if only she could have posed," they would all say, sipping wine and scrapping their plates. From now on I will only hide my camera when I don't feel like getting ready for bed. 

I always compare pills before I take them, to make sure no one has tampered with them, slipped in a sleeping pill or something to paralyze me so they could rape me with out signs of a fight. Or even worse kill me and make it look like a suicide, my family would have a fucking coronary if they had to tell their friends I offed myself with a few over the counter pills. BP50, I-2, all pills come with their own combination of letter and number, as long as the whole bottle matches then they are safe to take. Nothing like a late night game of bingo with a bottle of over-the counter pills to end your day. There are some nights when I'm too tired to examine pills, count knives, put on matching pajamas with cherries, so I just sleep. Mornings after nights like these I'm always more thankful to be alive. I would hate it if I woke up dead to realize that if I could have just stayed up a little longer to count knives or hide everyday appliances that I might have made it though the night.

That's the art of being scared I guess. I don't have to sky dive or walk tight ropes, I defeat death every morning in my own little way. We all have our own art, the silly things that make us feel safe. To kids they are stuffed animals or blankets, to adults it maybe another person or a locked door. My safety, which some might say is a little obsessive, comes in the form of eleven knives, bingo with pills, my favorite pair of heels, and hidden hair products.