I prefer my horror films to have zombies, please.

I was on my way home from work in a skirt suit (occupational hazard), when Mr. Cool leans forward towards me, points at me, and slowly drags his fingers across his throat in a I’m-going-to-slice-your-neck-open kind of fashion. Stunned, I looked around and checked to make sure I didn’t just walk onto the set of a horror movie. No such luck.

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