Fuck Those Around You and Their Self Serving Self Centered Self Obsession and Tell Me What Is In Your Heart; When You Are Finally Alone and All Is Quiet, What Is True and What Is Real? Who TRULY CARES about you?
This is going to take a while. I’m sick. Mentally and physically. I do not want pity. I won’t go into detail. I’m not in a fucking pain contest with anyone. Some people think I talk too much here, but you know what? Fuck that. I have a place where I can write about things that are happening in my life and fuck you if it bothers you for some ridiculous reason. I don’t tell you how to live your life. I pray you have a beautiful one. I’ll be over here grappling with mine, thank you. This is my journal, of sorts. You are not obligated to read it. And if you “don’t care about my art,” you aren’t forced to look at it. I almost want to apologize for the tone of this post, but fuck that. I’ve been through a lot lately, things I haven’t told anyone, and I have every right to be angry once in a while.
Vampire hunter, monster maker, super sleuth, grave robber, commander of the Death Star, mad clergyman, slayer of innumerable beasties- the gentleman of horror, Peter Cushing, has done it all. Our tribute to the genre's most elegant icon is available at the @severinfilms shop, along with everything else you need (save for some tea) to have yourself a proper English night of terror.