When I was little, I was very afraid of clowns. In particular, through a big hallway decorated with memorabilia from the past, my grandma’s house had a clown mask hanging on one part of the hallway, and I always ran past it without looking at it because I found it absolutely terrifying.

When I was about in second or third grade, I was in bed with a fever and had a dream in which I was attacked by a three eyed clown, but I defended myself and pushed him off some stone stairs, he hit his head on the way down, and while he was unconscious, I stabbed his heart with a screwdriver and cut off his head. Days later, I was not afraid of clowns anymore. I still find it one of the more curious things.