This is the finger mustache.  Classy.

Also, it really has been a while since I posted anything of significance on this blog.  I’m not feeling incredibly jovial today, as I said goodbye to my little brother for two years.  He will be moving to Tampa, Florida to be a missionary for our church.

I’m excited and nervous for him at the same time.  I’ve been in a similar position, as I served a two year mission nearly 4 years ago in Santiago, Chile.  Saying goodbye is never easy, but I know that where he’s going he will learn to be a man and change people’s lives.

OK! Now that I’m done with that, I can stop being a downer, I can move on and share a story that I meant to write about weeks ago.

I hate being scared.  Really. I absolutely despise it.  I have a very vivid imagination which tends to get me into trouble in the scary type situations.  The body thrashes, and the voice squeals and people either get freaked out, annoyed or hit in the face. This is one of the main reasons I don’t like to walk alone at night or go camping… I invent monsters and crazy rapists who want to attack me in the night at the turn of every corner.

Naturally, with my fear of fear (is there even such a thing?) I’m not a huge fan of the frivolities that come along with Halloween.  I don’t mind dressing up, or eating candy.  Bobbing for apples is fine by me.  But, horror movies? I think I’ll pass.  And haunted houses?  I’d rather have a colonoscopy.  I hate being scared so much, in fact, that I’ve managed to avoid these things for my entire life.  I’m 24-years-old and have never seen a horror movie (besides Snow White… that Wicked Witch is scary) or been through a haunted house-that is, until a few weeks ago.

I consider myself to be a fairly stubborn and headstrong fellow, but I’m consistently amazed at how little effort it requires for a beautiful girl to convince me to do… well…. anything.  The last week of October was just such a circumstance.  My roommate and I were spending the evening with two wonderful young ladies when someone had the bright idea of going to the local ‘Scream Asylum.’

Naturally, I resisted the idea.  They persisted, and it took all of 2 minutes to convince me to grow a backbone and just do it.

One hour later, I had on a pair of wet pants, a hoarse voice and 3 friends with sore stomachs from laughing at my uncharacteristically foul language screamed at an incomprehensible high pitch.  As Jeff would say, I scream like a sissy-face-la-la-pants-bed-wetter.

There was one particular portion of this terrible, terrible place that really sent me over the top.  After passing by a semi-retarded clown in a wheelchair and a cheesy zombie with a chainsaw, we entered into a room filled with dismembered body parts hanging from the ceiling.  As we waded through the sea of limbs and torsos, squinting through the strobe light, my roommate stopped.

“Dude! Go!” I yelled with anxiety in my voice.  It was far too quiet, and eerie swinging limbs were everywhere.

“Just a sec,” he said without moving a muscle.

And that’s when I heard it.  It was quiet at first… until it got closer.

“Sooooo quiet.  Soooooooooo quiet,” rasped the voice.

I turned and saw a decapitated, bloodied corpse stammering towards me.  This is what I did (you really need to click that link to fully understand the situation), followed by a few expletives and a dead arm to my roommate.

I hated that haunted house.  But you know what? I’d do it all over again if she asked me to.  Man, I’m a sucker.