To Whom it May Concern:
Hello, my name is Jackie Schimmel. I am a whipper snapper in my mid-twenties with an affinity for daytime sequins and a very sexual relationship with a good dry-aged gouda. I spend many nights home alone with my precious purebred pooch Leo sipping an ice chip clad dirty martini whilst in a plush robe. I often find myself snuggled by the fireplace watching some vintage Real Housewife episodes and throwing things at the television when Gretchen Rossi comes on the screen in one of her heinous outfits. It is in these blissful moments where I appreciate life and find solace in my alone time.
In the past few weeks, these moments I used to hold near and dear have become seriously fucked up. I hope I am not the only bitch that has recently suffered from the overflow of horror film trailers plaguing my television screen. Not only do I have to worry about fucking Ebola and running for cover whenever I hear someone out in public with a southern accent, I now have to deal with seeing the trailer for Annabelle every time I want to escape my daily disgruntles with reality television. It is wrong, terrifying and doesn’t sit well with me NOR with my Xanax prescription. I see this fucking trailer everywhere. I love (some) children but I swear to fucking God if I had a kid that got possessed by a doll, I would not be headed to a church for an exorcism… I would be headed to the fire station #byefelicia.
So please, whoever you are, stop playing these wildly frightening trailers in the middle of Barefoot Cuntessa and Below Dick. It sends my serotonin levels on a roller coaster I am not equipped to handle, and also makes me want to personally dismember each and every one of my collector American Girl Dolls I had to hound my gentile Grandparents for.