Death to mutant semi-me

I've always been a huge fan of horror films. Sci-fi, monster, alien abduction, you name it, I probably have seen it or would like to. One of my favorites is Alien, directed by Ridley Scott. I first saw it well after it came out - perhaps in the mid-80s. There was no Director's Cut, just the original chest-burster in all its glory. Even today the film has withstood the years, both with respect to effects, story, and resonating terror and intensity. I watched it again after seeing Prometheus in order to see if there was anything I could tie back to the recent foray back to the Space Jockey and xenomorphs.

Having said all this, I had the thought that this tumor is similar to the alien, although there's no symbolic male oral rape that's been so thoroughly discussed across the interwebs and dorkapedias. No, this alien is one that's a mutated part-me, and stupidly tries to thrive while simultaneously killing its host, as it has no where else to go. It's not like it can chew its way out of my abdominal cavity. If it did, I would choke that fucker with both hands and feel its dying breath on my skin before expiring.

Where was I? Right...it can't live without me. I, on the other hand, can do very well without said mutant semi-me coiling around my precious circulatory structures and impeding the sacrosanct functions of my beloved pancreas. My offensive actions are subjecting it to blasts of radioactive waves, and poisoning it with chemicals - both treatments designed to terminate or otherwise completely discombobulate its cellular functions right down to its DNA.

I think we're in the third, and final act of my own horror movie...it's the part where all the plays have been made, and the clock is ticking down to the moment of truth. I think it's going to end poorly for the tumor. I have too many sequels planned for myself.