We all have our secrets.
I have one of those pens where the clothes fall off of a 50's pin up girl when you turn it upside down. I also watched Buffy last night. As in the Vampire Slayer.
I've never had any desire to watch Buffy. Something about watching a busty blond "save the world from vampires, demons, and forces of darkness" as the cover solicits just never summoned my interest.
I'm a biography girl. If Sarah Michelle Gellar and her high school comrades actually did fend off vampires, I'd be into it. I'd probably have read it by now- had it autographed at her book signing at the local mall as her sales teetered near Ann Frank territory. But she didn't.
This all came about in a don't knock it 'til you've tried it sort of way. When the box set found itself fed-ex'd to my doorstep, I knew it was only a matter of time. Not so much out of my own curiosity but out of my Catholic guilt. Someone sent this to you from half way across the country and you aren't even going to watch it? They're going to ask you about it, and then what? You're going to lie? Images of my grandmother flashed to mind. My elementary school uniform.
My real qualm is what if I like it? I've read Green Eggs & Ham. What if I really get into it? I'd be one step closer to ordering one of those Harry Potter wands out of the Skymall catalogue. I'd be in the same mind set of not only dressing up for the Renaissance festival, but learning a fake language and staying in character outside of fair hours. Speakith in the third person. Then what?
What if this is only a gateway drug?
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