I kind of don’t understand why people love horror movies. I mean, I have my theories, but it’s all just speculation; because, curiously enough, none of the horror fans that I know can really explain the attraction, either. Call me a hedonist, but when it comes to entertainment I’m all about feeling good.

I also can’t shake the old TV-hypnotist/crackpot theory that everything we experience is recorded with perfect fidelity in some little black box in our brains. I mean, I know that’s not how it works, but it’s a hard thing to shake. If it’s even remotely possible that our brains store up the things we see, why would you want your mental DVR to be full of human bodies being shredded like wet, red, screaming, tissue paper? Someday, the boundaries that separate your memories and your sense of reality may erode, or even disintegrate. If the monsters are bound to escape, is it really a good idea to stockpile them?

I said I had some theories, but I don’t really want to get into all of them; many are not exactly complimentary towards horror fans, which I know isn’t fair, and it’s all pissing into the wind, anyway. Still, I have to wonder over the fact that, in at least one case that I’m aware of, an interest in horror can grow out of a childhood of intense, abject fear. Could this be true of other fans? Were they all big ol’ fraidy-cats when they were little?

Well, I don’t know. I spent most of my youth utterly terrified pretty much all of the time, and I have no interest in horror films. I also have no interest in machismo, but I couldn’t tell you if that has anything to do with it either.

This confusion over why some people love horror also applies to certain people’s love of misery. I hated The Road because it was so relentlessly dour–which I recognize as a worthy technical achievement on the part of the writer, but my inability to abstract myself from the bleakness made it impossible for me to finish the damn thing. (I think that perhaps a tiny fraction of the loudly-professed affection for The Road came from a kind of chest-thumping pride at the mental toughness required to get through the experience. Well-deserved, I say.)

It’s possible that fans of downer entertainment are just better at shaking off all the negative emotions that they are subjected to. They walk out of the theater cleansed, able to curl up in bed at the end of the night, wafted to sleep on the wings of a sweet dream. On the other hand, maybe they like feeling slightly queasy for weeks afterward, enjoying the sensation of their insides rotting, and at any moment, their hearts may drop into their abdomens. Who knows?

Many people dislike happy endings, too–especially when they’re unearned or ridiculous–but some people really can’t stand them. They hate them with fiery passion. I suppose it depends on the story. Sometimes it makes sense to have a happy ending, and sometimes it doesn’t. But some people find unhappy endings far more satisfying, and I think in some cases it’s got something to do with a perceived independent acknowledgement of their own misanthropy and cynicism. Yeah! You struggle and suffer, and in the end you lose anyway! That’s how the world works, for real.

But, if that’s the case, why the hell would you want to watch a movie about how messed up and hopeless life is? Some people are irritated, or even violently enraged when too much escapism creeps in their escapism. They’ll grant a world with zombies, sure, but no way is anyone allowed to survive until the end. The world is on a mission to fuck you over—why would it suddenly just stop trying?

I don’t have an answer for any of this. Maybe I’m asking the wrong question. Maybe my friends are right, and the real question is: Why do I have to ruin everything?