Scarier Than Agatha Trunchbull

My sister left a comment saying she’d be interested to know what I’ve been reading lately. And I actually have something to say about that. I’ve been reading a collection of short stories by Roald Dahl. You know, author of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The BFG, James and the Giant Peach, and Matilda—the list of fantastic works continues. But these short stories . . .

They are not what I was expecting. To be fair, the other books I’ve read of his are children’s books, while the short stories are definitely for adults. But they’re kinda creepy. Like, OMG, I can’t believe that guy was just going to cut that other guy’s finger off. And that the other guy was just going to let him! Creepycakes!

Y’all know I don’t like creepy things. I mistakenly watched Scream by myself (in my parents’ basement, no less) and I was scared for weeks. I shut my eyes during all the gory suspenseful parts in movies. I walked out of Final Destination 2 when I somehow got talked into going to see it. I get nervous watching Lost. (Seriously. It’s bad.) So this side of Roald Dahl is not necessarily one I wanted to get acquainted with. But I did.

My only real reading time is right before I go to bed. And I think you can see where I’m going with this. I keep reading these creepy stories and get all creeped out, then I go to sleep and have creeptastic dreams. And while I’ve been enjoying the writing and the storytelling, the ew factor made me quit reading. What am I going to read now?

Come on Mr. Dahl, where are the Big Friendly Giants? Where are the loveable bugs and the flying produce? I thought Veruca Salt and those weirdo Oompa-Loompas were bad enough, but this? This has got to stop.