With certain things in life (aka most things) there is a specific moment that can be pointed to when something goes from strange to creepy. For example, when Michael Jackson built a carnival in his backyard for kids, that was strange. When he started sleeping with these little kids in his bed, that was creepy. Or, when Janet Jackson’s boob plops* out at the Super Bowl, that was strange. When it had a decorative silver piercing, that was creepy. It’s not so hard, I’m sure we can think of endless examples. (Why did both of my examples involve the Jacksons? I don’t know, but that just turned this post from strange to creepy.)
Anyway, I bring this all up because things in my life just got creepy. Remember a few weeks ago when I read Crime and Punishment and thought it was so strange that I had a lot in common with the main character? Well, crap just got creepy a few days ago when I noticed that Fyodory Dostoevsky and I have the same birthday. Boom! My head exploded when I read this. It’s a good thing that I don’t have an axe in my apartment, because I’d hate for this to go from creepy to criminal.
*I get extra credit for this excellent word choice. “Plops” is a perfect word. C’mon, you know it made that sound.