In L. Frank Baum’s intro to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, he claimed his goal was to write a fairy tale without the violence and endless moralizing of Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm (he also, for the record, called children “youngsters,” and stated that his goal was “to pleasure” them, but whatever).

If that’s true, I’d say he sucked at his job, because that book contains some fucked up shit.

I often wonder what my life would have been like if I’d had the good sense to stay the hell away from a place called Voyages Through Literature, or skipped the godforsaken mall altogether, and told Madeline she could deal with her stupid crush on her own. In the end, though, I suppose you could say the decision was mine. I personally selected The Wonderful Wizard of Oz from a list of truly awful-sounding public domain classics, clicked “yes” to agree to whatever the terms and conditions were, and stepped into that tacky neon booth of my own free will. But, in my defense, they offered me money. It was clearly entrapment, and you bet your sweet ass that if I can ever prove that the store actually exists—if it isn’t some portal to an alternate dimension or my own brain finally severing all ties to reality—I fully intend to sue.

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My name is Arabella Grimsbro, and this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.