Dude, ‘You’re creeping me out’ | PostIndependent.com

Dude, ‘You’re creeping me out’

April in GlenwoodApril E. ClarkGlenwood Springs, CO Colorado

Call it distrust, paranoia, insecurity, whatever, but I’ve officially crossed the line on using the word “creepy.”Things have gotten so out of hand, my roommate Kendra restricts my creep-outs to one a day.Just like the multivitamin. With no nutritional benefits.Being creeped out on a daily basis could have something to do with unsettling MySpace friend requests from strangers posing with handguns and automatic rifles. Or all those headlines about ex-boyfriends morphing into creepy stalkers after breakups-gone-bad.The only time I ever want to hear the words “If I can’t have you, then no one can” is when I mutter them to an order of McDonald’s french fries.I may have some trust issues left over from that time I caught my next-door neighbor watching me with binoculars as I washed my car in high school. Now that’s kind of creepy, right?But I’ll let that one pass because he was 15 and I was wearing a bikini. The kid was only human and going through puberty. Plus he liked to break dance (but was not good at it), carry a boombox on his shoulder, and play Dungeons and Dragons.Not exactly a ladies’ man.It doesn’t take much to creep me out, hence the one-a-day limit. I’ll be watching TV and a commercial for the “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” will air. Instant creep out. A no-brainer, really.But then the NFL game comes back on and some guy wearing one of those creepy rubber fan faces causes the same effect. There’s something about a person’s facial expression frozen in time I can’t handle. Maybe my mom told me too many times that if I made ugly faces, they would stay like that.Thank goodness for cosmetic surgery.And I could never get that creepy Twilight Zone episode called “The Masks” out of my head. That’s the one where this dying guy makes his family wear these scary masks at a Mardi Gras party and, well, if I divulged any more information, I would spoil it.It’s creepy that’s all you need to know.I’m often creeped out by people I come across in my travels. On our action-packed roadtrip to Iowa last fall, Kendra and I stopped in Fort Morgan, Colo., to fill up on gas. Maybe it was the time of day more like morning but this gas station was crawling with creepy people lacking both fashion sense and teeth.I swore I heard dueling banjos.Kendra was equally creeped out, locking me in the car while she went inside the station to pay for gas, a bag of chili cheese Frito’s, and an energy drink.Being creeped out can really take it out of a girl.While driving through rural Iowa, the lack of people for miles on end was creepy. Out of nowhere, we did see two men in the middle of an empty field. One appeared to be picking up something he dropped as the other stood behind him. The stillness of America’s heartland may be nice to some, but I prefer a little more excitement in my life.Let the car games begin.We played “Would you rather … ” for what seemed like an hour until I finally got creeped out and reached my daily quota.”Would you rather eat an eyeball, or live in Iowa for the rest of your life?” was the deal breaker.I picked living in Iowa, for the curious few.My problem is I creep my own self out, which is a major character flaw. I can’t even date a really sweet guy without being creeped out when he does something nice. Of course, I’m hardly used to it.Take me out to a fancy dinner and gaze into my eyes over crème brûlée and a glass of port wine? As freaky as some guy showing all of MySpace how much he loves his guns.Shovel my sidewalk or take out the trash? You’d think I just saw a guy in a blue-and-white rubber mask and No. 18 Peyton Manning jersey.Hold my hand while walking down the street? I might as well eat an eyeball.I know it’s wrong. And I just can’t allow things that aren’t creepy to creep me out any longer. It’s even affecting Kendra, who now finds herself being creeped out every day.So, friends, the weekly creep-out limit is in effect.Too bad I just used mine up writing this column.April E. Clark will always be creeped out by big oil-drilling rigs in the middle of the ocean, Rocky Mountain oysters, and those floating vampires who knock on that kid’s hospital window in “Salem’s Lot.” She’s only human. She can be reached at aclark@postindependent.com or 945-8515, ext. 16601.

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