That One Time I Was Possessed

Before you read this post, I want you to know that I am a good person.
I promise this is the one and only time I ever tortured anyone purposefully. Unless you ask my cousin Lindsey, who claims we locked her in a car seat when we were tiny babes.
Whatever she says, IT DIDN’T HAPPEN.

So enjoy the post, and please don’t call the po-pos.

My friend Martha and I had just gone out to eat, and we needed to stop by her dorm to drop off left-overs before heading out to play zombie tag.

Yes, zombie tag. I judged it too before I played it, only now, not only is it super amazing fantasmagorical fun, but guess who’s going to survive the zombie apocalypse?

Anyways, Martha and I had to stop by her dorm. In order to get there, I had to turn left into a half-circle drive. For this one, you need a map.

Now, I promise that I am a safe, respectable, stereotype-breaking driver. But this was not my best moment. The four glasses of sweet tea I’d had were coursing through my veins like adrenaline mixed with crack, and the steak I’d eaten made me feel like an elderly llamaraptor: tired yet rabidly carnivorous.

So as I turned into the drive, I noticed a young man standing on the curb. Though my car was aimed no where towards him (red arrow), he saw my car hurtling straight for him (blue arrow). He took a step back and panic flooded his face.

What – like he didn’t trust a girl enough to not hit him?!

We locked eyes, and in the next millisecond, I was possessed by a demon.

The next thing I know, I’m overcome by the urge to scare the poop out of this guy.  Half of me screamed out that he was judging me for being a female driver. The other half, the possessed half, just really wanted to torture him. I swung my car so that I curbed it right in front of him, and he jumped ten feet in the air, even though he’d stepped back enough that I was already far from even grazing him.

From his new spot, we locked eyes again. I grinned devilishly. He looked exactly like a deer in the headlights, and I found myself laughing maniacally that the expression was coming to life before me.

I put the car in park and slowly became aware that Martha was staring at me anxiously from the passenger’s seat. Her eyes held a mixture of concern for me and for her own safety.

We stared at each other for a moment, silently.

“You could have gotten ten points, but I’ll give you five for trying.” she said.

It was too much. I burst out laughing, and she must have been possessed too, because she laughed harder than I did. It’s a wonder I didn’t ruin my leather seats after four glasses of sweet tea.

Present for Lindsey

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Lindsey. She had the most amazing, beautiful, intelligent, modest cousin EVER, Emily.

I mean, we were legit bffs.


Then one day, my mom decided to take us to Tennessee to go horseback riding. Actually, it was a free vacation from a time share company, so the trip also included ridiculous amounts of coloring pictures at the kid’s table in the back of a conference room and listening to the nice older couple play “monopoly” in the hotel room next door. But on the second day, there was horseback riding.


Lindsey and I got on our horses and sat delightedly as the nice man on the lead horse taught us how to steer, go forward, and stop. We tugged at our own reins, dutifully following his lessons, fully confident in our ability to control the actions of a creature five hundred times our size.

 

The nice man clicked to his horse and they began to move briskly down the path. Our horses followed lethargically, but Lindsey’s horse started to pick up pace as it rounded the corner toward the petting zoo.


It was at that moment in time that the nice man became the man of questionable ethics (or the mustachioed menace… either or). Why he knowingly gave this demented horse to a small child, we will never know.

“Uh, little darlin’, your horse really likes those llamas over there, so if you could just hold tight to the reins and say ‘whoa’…”


But it was too late.


A wild frenzy radiated from the eyes of Lindsey’s beast like laser beams. While most horses veered off the path in search of fulfilling the unending calls of their stomach, Lindsey’s horse wanted to fulfill his unending llama fetish. Lindsey tugged on the reins and screamed “whoawhoawhoawhoawhoa” until it became some kind of rabid-horse alarm, but her tiny little frame was powerless against such a mighty and determined monster.


Meanwhile, I was laughing hysterically. I would pay for this later, when my horse would lodge my head in the fork of a large branch across the path, but right now I was giggling so hard I could have peed my pants. Lindsey and her horse were far enough from the path that all I saw was a horse trotting towards a cute little llama.

 

Lindsey saw something more like this:

So needless to say, Lindsey was scarred for life. This near-paranoia provided hours of entertainment on my end. That night, she sat wide-eyed in horror as I recounted tale after tale of llama attacks.

I think Lindsey expected it would be like the knock-knock-who’s-there-aren’t-you-glad-I-didn’t-say-banana? joke, where if you put up with the annoying part for long enough,you get a happy ending. But despite a multitude of changes to the story itself, the ending was always the same: the llama’s acid-spit killed the poor, unsuspecting subject of my tale.


For years to come, the word “llama” alone elicited a worthwhile reaction.


Until now.


Because when I got back from my summer trip to Gatlinburg, I brought Lindsey this truly inspirational llama plushie. It even looked menacing. I showed up to the fast food establishment where she works and walked up to the drive-thru window. I bent over and held up my prize so it was the only thing one could see from inside. Then I waited… and giggled a lot. But when she rounded the corner, her reaction?! Only mild surprise! AND SHE HUGGED IT!

I knew it was time to kick it up a notch.


So, Lindsey, dear, here is your new boggart-fuel:

RAWR! *spit* *claw* *death*