Prepare to meet Kali… in Hell

March 28, 2017

Dear Life-sized, cardboard, Indiana Jones,

I hate you with with the blazing fires of 10,000 suns. If I thought that I could set you on fire without inadvertently causing my house to erupt into a fiery inferno of death, and reducing all the inhabitants therein to crispy bits, you would be nothing but ash and a painful memory now.

 My brothers, who were born without a shred of human compassion, have used you in cruel and inhumane ways over the past decade in order to further their mutual plot to frighten me to death. I cannot count the times I have found you lurking in the darkness right inside my bedroom door when I come in late at night. Who could forget the times you've stood outside my bedroom door, waiting for me to stumble incoherently out of my room, fresh from happy dreams of Dean Winchester, as you stand there smiling smugly at the girlish yelp that you force from my momentary stopped heart? Let us not soon forget the time that you waited in my bathtub, behind the closed curtain, for the moment that you could scare a tired and naked me so badly that years would be shaved off of my life.

 You are evil and must be destroyed.

 So, in order to prevent the mother lovin' apocalypse of all Indiana Jones inducing fright fests to happen (that would be my brothers putting him outside a window at night with the blinds up, or on the back porch at night), I have taken steps to see that you never, ever send me into a fright fueled panic attack of epic proportions EVER AGAIN. Your days of fear mongering are over. I will not live in constant fear that you will appear out of nowhere and finally deliver me to a life of padded cells, straight jackets, and Thorazine ANY LONGER. Those days are over! No longer will you scare me so badly that I am reduced to sitting in the corner, twitching like a squirrel on crack. THIS IS MY INDEPENDENCE DAY.

 Love and Kisses,
Ruby


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