One delirious summer night when I was nineteen, I went on a blind date with a man I met on Craigslist who was covered in beautiful tattoos from head to toe. About fifteen minutes after he picked me up from the barn where I worked, he began to get annoyed with my admittedly shallow and casual knowledge of the horror genre (he said in the ad that he wanted to meet “a Sherri Moon Zombie character,” not a horror critic, but I digress). Now, I might technically be a horror fan, he began to explain to me, but no, I was not a very good one, and he was starting to feel like I’d lied to him.
It was then that I noticed he had a set of knuckle tattoos that originated during the Napoleonic Wars, and hoo boy.
Ten minutes later, I was walking back to my workplace via someone’s ditch-side lane, smoking a cigarette and trying to convince my friend on the phone that I was telling the truth about this disaster. I was one scary lady, he had told me, interrupting my very well researched Special Interest Monologue about Nelson’s Navy by slamming on the brakes and kicking me out of his car. Yep, I explained, that really happened that way, I started sperging about the Napoleonic Wars and he told me I was too scary and he drove me almost back to work and he kicked me out of the car.
God, I love horror stories.