I hate horror movies. Watching a movie where you spend half your time waiting for something terrible to happen, and the other half watching the terrible thing happen, is not my idea of a good time. I never liked garden-variety slasher films to begin with, but now even the new brand of intellectual, artistic gore-fest is off the table. The Coen Brothers, who I used to love, are forever ruined for me. Quentin Tarantino is in the doghouse. The reason for my newfound sensitivity? I had a kid. Having kids cracks you open in a way you’ve never been opened; it makes you vulnerable, and anything dark or violent in your immediate vicinity leaks into all the new fissures in your soul. It makes it impossible to watch the evening news, let alone The Lovely Bones. I manufacture enough daymares and nightmares in my imagination now, without any help from Hollywood.