It was my brother’s birthday when this balloon incident transpired. My brother placed a balloon in my bedroom, I hit it by accident and I got scared shitless (shitless is apparently not a proper word, silly English grammar) for a second.

I discover new things about myself every month or so. I find reading books more enjoyable when there’s a story about psychotic turkeys and taxidermist fathers involved. I was going to write about my new found fear of balloons in the dark, but that would be boring and I simply don’t feel like writing about that. Maybe I’ll write something about fear and loathing (isn’t that a book? maybe was it a movie?  I don’t know, just google it).  It’s decided next article will be about fear and loathing. I should probably find out what loathing means first.

Google:

loathing- present participle of loathe:

Verb: Feel intense dislike or disgust for.