I Am Afraid Of Virginia Woolf And Apparently The Only One Who Is
For decades, people have mockingly prompted, “Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?” not realizing that she is the source of all my trauma. Evidently, I am completely alone in my blood-curdling fear and the only one to whom Mistress Woolf is a personal haunt. Thanks to a rousing game of Feminist Literature Quizzo and a drunken conversation with an Ouija board on Halloween night in 2017, I had accidentally created the perfect storm and summoned a malevolent force beyond human comprehension: Virginia Woolf herself.
I haven’t slept soundly in three years. As I crawl into bed each night, I mentally prepare for hours of torment at the hands of Virginia Woolf.
At 10 p.m., as I try to close my eyes, the scratching begins. My anus tightens to the size of a pinhead as Mistress Woolf rakes her nine-inch claws up and down the walls to signal her grand entrance. The jagged markings read, “Melancholy were the sounds on a winter’s night.” I’m terrified that she doesn’t realize it’s summer.
Then, like clockwork, Mistress Woolf licks the bottom of my feet with her grainy, serpentine tongue, and whispers, “Such a burden to have a room of one’s own ridden with nightmares.” I pee a little.
After the foot licking, Mistress Woolf hangs from the ceiling by her webbed hands and hisses…
