We need to have a talk.
Not the kind of talk where I’m mad.
Though honestly, maybe mad would be easier. Mad burns hot and fast like a shot of cheap whiskey. Mad gets things off your chest and moves on.
No, this is worse than mad.
I’m just disappointed.
The kind of bone deep, soul crushing disappointment plops right down into your stomach.
Yesterday was Friday the 13th.
And not one of you beautiful degenerates made a single Jason Voorhees reference on my timeline.
Not one “ch ch ch ah ah ah” sound effect. No hockey mask emojis. No jokes about avoiding summer camps or crystal lakes or teenage counsellors with questionable survival instincts.
Nothing.
Radio silence from my fellow horror nerds I thought I knew and loved.
You start to wonder if you’re living in some parallel universe where the cultural reference points that make life bearable have just…
Anywho…
The Friday the 13th franchise that taught us valuable life lessons like “don’t have premarital sex at summer camp” and “maybe don’t split up when there’s a masked killer on the loose” and “seriously, why does anyone still go to Camp Crystal Lake when it has a 100% murder rate?”
Jason Voorhees is the persistent bastard who refuses to stay dead.
Which, honestly, is a mood we should all aspire to in 2025.
The man’s been shot, stabbed, drowned, blown up, sent to space (yes, that happened), and dragged to hell, and he still shows up for work the next day with his trusty machete and inexplicable ability to teleport behind unsuspecting teenagers.
That’s dedication to craft right there.
But apparently, we’ve all become too sophisticated for such simple pleasures.
Too busy doom scrolling through man made hellscapes and arguing about AI ethics to pause and appreciate the pure, unfiltered joy of a seven foot zombie in a hockey mask systematically working through a cast of characters who couldn’t make good decisions if their lives depended on it.
We live in an age of manufactured nostalgia.
Every streaming platform is desperately mining the past for content that’ll trigger some warm fuzzy feeling of recognition.
Hollywood’s rebooting franchises that should’ve stayed buried. Social media’s constantly cycling through “remember this?” posts about things that happened six months ago.
But when an actual, legitimate cultural anniversary rolls around…
One that deserves recognition, celebration, maybe a few poorly photoshopped memes.
Suddenly everyone’s too cool for camp.
I’m not asking for much here, okay?
A simple “Happy Friday the 13th” would’ve sufficed. Maybe a gif of Jason emerging from the lake.
Hell, I would’ve settled for someone just acknowledging that today was statistically more likely to result in machete related incidents than your average Friday.
But no. You all decided to spend yesterday posting about productivity hacks and coffee recipes and whatever other mundane Tuesday energy content fills the void where your sense of fun used to live.
So here’s where we stand…
(cause this place here is a dictatorship ya know?)
You’re all nearly dead to me. Not completely dead…
I’m not that crazy.
You could still make up for it.
You could start sneak in a Friday the 13th reference into your next chat.
Develop an appreciation for practical effects and creative kill scenes.
Recognise that sometimes the best way to deal with life’s existential horror is to embrace the fictional kind.
Or you could continue living your reference free existence, blissfully unaware that you’ve let down the ghost of every slasher film ever made.
Your choice.
But know this…
The next time Friday the 13th rolls around, I’ll be watching. Waiting. Ready to judge your commitment to the sacred traditions of acknowledging arbitrary calendar based horror celebrations cause I’m a nerd.
And if we can’t come together as a society to appreciate a good hockey mask wearing, machete wielding, summer camp terrorizing legend, then what’s the bloody point of civilisation anyway?
Jason deserved better from you.
And frankly, so did I.
Ch ch ch ah ah ah, indeed.
Stephen Walker