My sister and I were up late one night flipping through the channels past reruns of “A Shot at love with Tila Tequila” and “Shear Genius” when we stumbled upon a show worthy of our attention. It was a show about skunk apes.

From what I remember, skunk apes are basically cousins of Bigfoot and Sasquatch. For people who think Bigfoot is just a Bigjoke, the idea that he has cousin species wandering around is no Bigdeal. Despite all rational thoughts that tell me big monkeys don’t run around in the woods on two legs, I am still terrified by the “what ifs.” For someone like me, it means I now have one more species to add to my list of nightmare leading men. It means I have one more thing to look over my shoulder for while I’m sitting alone in my room typing on my computer. It means I have one more taboo topic to avoid during daily conversation.

Anyway, according to this show, Texas is apparently Bigfoot central and local enthusiasts spend weekends in the woods hoping to spot the upright monkeys. They take their night vision equipment, cameras and audio equipment should Bigfoot emit a sound worthy of recording. But they don’t just wait around. No. Because that would be safe and sensible. Instead, they play recordings of howling gorillas hoping to provoke a response from a nearby monster.

No, thank you. The only thing my sister and I decided we would have packed on our Bigfoot excursion was snacks and a harpoon or tranquilizer gun. If everyone is so set on proving Bigfoot exists, why aren’t they taking steps to see that they have one captured? I’m not going to believe he exists because a bunch of “experts” say they saw him. I want to see a body.

When I lay in bed that night, I stared out my open second-story window to the eerily-lit cul-de-sac below. I had taken my contacts out and couldn’t see much detail, but my imagination was as sharp as ever. Was that Bigfoot leaning against the lamppost? Was he winking at me or was he baring his teeth? I realized that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if Bigfoot was wearing a leotard and performing a graceful ballet routine and it didn’t matter if he was striding toward my house, growling and pointing up at my window with a furry finger. I would probably find myself sitting in a puddle of my own waste either way.

You see, because I don’t care if Bigfoot’s diet doesn’t include humans. I don’t care if he uses tools to hunt for food or a blackberry to keep in touch with Sasquatch and his Yeti cousin. I don’t care if he invented canned spray cheese and watches “The Office.” I would be as much afraid of civilized Bigfoot if he were standing in my cul-de-sac.

Maybe I’m being a bit harsh. I’ve never met Bigfoot – I’ll admit, I never plan to – and I’m already drawing conclusions about him as a person. Maybe Bigfoot is just as scared and skeptical about the possibility of Littlefoot creatures running around, driving cars and making cameos in blurry home videos. And what about that Loch Ness monster? What about Nessie? Is she all that bad?

I don’t know and I don’t plan on finding out.

That night, my sister went online to look up videos of Bigfoot. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the computer screen, but the videos freaked me out. When I looked back at the screen later, Katie had a site about aliens pulled up. I didn’t have to look twice to get chills and horrible memories of crying myself to sleep every other night my entire fourth grade year worrying about being abducted and doubting the existence of God came rushing back. It had been a rough year. And as I said before, my imagination is sharp and it’s sharper than it was in fourth grade before the Internet and TV specials. I won’t be surprised to wake up tomorrow morning in a pool of my own waste, or tears.

Kristine Gill is a junior newspaper journalism major and columnist for the Summer Kent Stater. Don’t mention Bigfoot at [email protected].