“That’s not accurate.” Your boyfriend, Simon, had been criticising the slashers you’ve been watching the entire night. You wanted to suffocate him with a pillow.

The actress in the film screams, blood gushing from her thigh. She tried to crawl away, Micheal looming over her, the knife shinning.

“Too much blood. No one who’s been stabbed in the thigh bleeds that much.” He explained casually, throwing a handful of candy corn into his mouth.

“Unless it hits the femoral vein,” Simon concluded.