What freaks or grosses you out?

I don't have a specific thing or item that grosses me out. But generally speaking, anything crawling out from a small hole send shivers down my spine. For instance, a worm crawling out of the dirt or an octopus' tentacle from an underwater cave. I'm not sure what it is about the gushing of something from a small hole but it sure freaks me out.

“Come and get ’er! My world famous Meatball surprise,” hollers Mother from the kitchen. Mom’s meatball surprise is the scariest thing on the face of the planet. If you know anyone that can’t cook, just imagine them trying to cook a meatball out of week-old beef stew and roasted pumpkin seeds. Ya, I know, I barfed too. Every time Mother cooks her meatball surprise you never know what you’re going to get. The smell of death is considerably better to the stomach-churning scent of those meatballs lingering about. Mom’s meatballs are more of a mystery than a surprise if you ask me.
Our family’s compost bin is the only one in the neighbourhood that actually scares away the rodents; even the raccoons freak out when my mother cooks her raunchy meatballs. There was one summer where we thought the local raccoons all caught a terrible disease as they were puking and dying on the sides of the roads; it turned out they all just got a taste of what Mother calls good old-fashioned home cooking. With all the new hype about eating organic, my mother is trying wheat grass juice in all the sauces she makes. Now her meatball surprises are gut-wrenching balls of disaster that try to claw their way back up your throat. Somehow, I’ve survived the wrath of those crunchy, but chewy, slimy, though mouth burning, not quite cheesy, saucy and dry-heaving meatballs that Mom calls dinner. Can you?

A shrill scream escapes my lips. Normally, I am rather composed, scoffing whoever dares jump into a bed and imitate a banshee. But composure is the farthest thing from my mind as I stare at the ugly beast that now blocks any possible escape from my room. Its beady black eyes stare at me evilly, for it knows I am trapped inside. It twitches once, twice, and then starts threading leisurely, aware that I am paralyzed with fear. Its antennae move rhythmically as it walks, coming closer and closer to me, unprepared victim. Well, perhaps I am not much of a victim, since, as people tirelessly point out, I am way bigger than a cockroach, and those abominations hardly ever pounce on anyone, but still, fear prevails. It is something about their ability to survive that nauseates me. What right do they have to keep walking around after nuclear war or being decapitated? But still they do, and it is them, terrible pests, hideous animals, it is them that terrify, irk, and gross me out. Finally, my father comes in, shoe in hand, and slaps the tiny little devil, but I swear that even as I clean the body parts away, its gaze still burns tauntingly, watching me.

I’m just minding my own business one day, writing my entry for youthink magazine. I’ve been typing about heights and how when one looks down from a high place, everything is tiny and one wrong move would send them flying down to the asphalt. Right in the middle of my description, I am jolted back to real life by a sharp jab in my sides – a sudden shock that made me jump in my chair. In short, I have been startled by one of the many pokes that I receive every once in a while.

Pokes come in many different styles and intentions, with some being soft and gentle like a tap, and others hard and fear-inducing. They can be accomplished by using a finger, a pen, or even a chopstick.

It’s hard to control one’s initial reactions to a poke since it’s very sudden. This could lead to a tendency for others to poke you if you’re the jumpy type, or to not be poked at all if you are able to ignore pokes.

For me, any type of poke freaks me out. Although I’ve constantly been poked, I’ve never quite gotten used to them. They make me hug my sides for the whole day and I become skittish and wary of people behind me.

In any case, pokes are generally unappreciated by the majority of the population, and for those of you who are pokers, think twice before poking someone – you never know how aggressive they’ll be!

There are so many terrors and frights in this world, but the worst is at home. They may be in the attic, in the basement, in your sister’s room or perhaps, right on your shelf. No, it’s not your stuffy. It’s a porcelain doll. I have one in a beautiful white dress with its hair done up and braided. One of my best friends has one that blinks... sorry, just skipped a heartbeat. I don’t know if it’s those eyes that seem to follow you everywhere you go or how “perfect” they look. Maybe I just watch too many ghost shows. I know for sure that mine is locked up in the basement... wait, what’s that doll doing on my bed!?!

P.S Sorry if I offended anyone who likes them, but good luck sleeping at night!
--Kate

I glance around, a shudder running down my spine as I take in the teeth-like formations which erupt from the earth and drip from the ceiling, making the cave instead seem to be the innards of some massive beast. Slowly walking forwards, I begin to wonder why I even came here, oblivious to my surroundings.

A few minutes later, I suddenly wake up from my trance to see that the cave is now pitch-dark. I can’t see a foot in front of my face. I try to look around, and pure terror descends on me as I realize I don’t know which direction I came from. My foot suddenly strikes something rocky, and I come down hard. Pain shoots through my arm, though it is soon replaced with a dull ache as I feel the cool trickle of blood run down my arm, over my hand, and drip to the floor. Everything slowly tints red as panic takes over my mind.

Just then, a voice reaches my ears. Faint, but real. I blindly struggle through the cave and towards the voice. A searing light momentarily blinds me before my eyes adjust. My eyes stare in amazement as I take in the bright colour of the of the outside world. Another tremor of pain runs through my arm, causing me to wince before running off in the direction of town. I’ve escaped. I’m safe. But I never forget that day - the day I got lost.

Mustard.
I cannot recall a time when the sight of yellow mustard didn't make me cringe. It's so horrifically disgusting I can't understand why people would willingly ingest it. Dijon mustard is completely fine - it even tastes good, but yellow mustard is a whole different story.

I avoided having to even touch the suspicious garnish for as long as I possibly could. But one day I was handed a sandwich. Innocently, I bit into it and found a somewhat spicy, gooey explosion in my mouth. Immediately recognizing the identity of the offending ingredient, I proceeded to cough it up. I then rinsed my mouth to remove any residue of the substance. I shiver to even think of that day.

Y.2.K? Piece of cake. The Apocalypse? Cake walk. 2012? It’ll be nothing compared to the earth-ripping, sky-shattering, end-of-all-life-as-you-know-it feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you reach into your pocket and pull out your phone to see not only one, but five missed calls from your mother.
Now, as every self-respecting teenage kid knows, you have two options: man up, pray a little and call back, or disappear off the face of the planet - and quite frankly, I don’t know which one is the better option. This is a true story that happened to a friend of a friend of mine.
The kid was driving, minding his own business with his friends in the back and the lake on his mind. So he’s driving when he feels the first set of vibrations in his shorts. He doesn’t think too much of it and brushes it off, but almost as soon as it stops, it starts again, call number two. Again, it’s over and again it starts. Call 3, missed. Now the poor kid is starting to panic, but still hoping that it’s just an urgent call from a friend. His optimism soon vanishes as he misses call four and finally the dreaded fifth call. He immediately pulls over to check his phone. Already he’s praying, saying good-bye to his friends. He checks his phone. It’s his mom…
Well, that’s the last we’ve heard of him.

Yes, they're soft. Yes, they have long velvety ears. And yes, they are planning to kill you. Have you ever looked into a bunny rabbit's eyes? Those are the eyes of a serial killer. Void of emotion or attachment, do not doubt that they will bite you and then devour your soul. "Oh, but they are so cute!" you say. It's the perfect ruse. No one looks past their adorable sleepy nature and the hop-hop-hopping but I'm telling you, psychopaths. Every. Single. One.