Taylor is gone this week, which means I will have two days of unfettered anime-watching and nacho-eating, a day of boredom, and then two days of existential depression where I wonder what I’m doing with my life and decide to cut my hair, dye it blue, and start a dry-cleaning business in Arkansas.
In keeping with the schedule, last night I made popcorn and ate a can of olives while I browsed the new anime on Netflix. I’ve always had a tenuous relationship with anime. The bulk of it annoys me. I have a tough time with the bossy girls who get emotional and vulnerable at just the right moment, the pretty boys who look up at the moon and say sensitive things about how they were orphaned by wizard-demons or whatever, and the children. Oh, lord. The anime children, who are painfully cute and high-pitched and they constantly laugh at nothing except the sheer hilarity of being alive. It’s eerie, like watching dogs bark at ghosts or something.
I am extremely picky about the anime that I watch, because I tend to think it somehow makes me not a nerd. It has to be just the right balance of humor and action and drama, and nobody’s hair can be too ridiculous. It has to be something that I can tell my friends that I have watched, but let’s face it, everyone knows that I have watched and enjoyed Pokemon so the dignity train has sort of left the station on that one.
Anyway, last night I went through my Netflix and added a bunch of obnoxious sounding series to the Instant Queue. I got the first one all ready to go. Trigun. Total classic. It’s about some kind of guy who shoots guns and there are girls there too. Excellent. I turned it on, snuggled down in my blanket and started to watch.
Three minutes in, I paused it.
A moment ago I was certain I had heard some kind of knocking sound. Was it at our door? One of the windows? It didn’t sound like an intentional knock. Maybe an accident. Like, someone who was about to break in. Like a burglar, or a murderer.
“Calm down,” I told myself. “So your gigantic boyfriend is not here. So what? You have a baseball bat, don’t you? You can boil some water on the stove, sear the face off anyone who comes jumping through your window. They’ll barely have any time to draw their many sharp knives and carve out your organs. Just dial the 9 and the 1 on your phone, and wait and see if a deranged mental patient shoots down your patio door before you let your imagination get the best of you.”
Somehow I wasn’t comforted.
I tried to enjoy the show I was watching. The guy’s hair did sort of set off my Ridiculous Alarms, but he was pretty funny for the most part. Not too bad for anime from the 90’s. For all I tried to concentrate, though, images of crazy gun-wielding killer thieves kept creeping into the back of my mind. Every few minutes I caught myself imagining my own gruesome death. First they would chainsaw through my front door, and then stab me in the eye. Both eyes, so I would be blind, and then they would shoot me in the bladder and cut off all my arms and legs, because that is what crazy people do. They would steal all my best comic books while I lay, a morosely wiggling torso on the floor, attempting to scrawl out my last will and testament with a pen up my nose.
These are things that could happen, people.
After the first episode, I turned the show off and took a bunch of books back to the bedroom. I snuggled into bed, thought better of it, and got up to wedge the bedroom door shut with a number of socks. I would regret this decision at three AM, when I would wake up from a murderburglar dream with the desperate urge to pee.
It might be a long week.