Am I the only person who has emotional scars from being put in a photo booth as a young child? Alone. ALONE. In a big scary box. Blinded by a flashing light. No amount of reassurance from my mother would convince me that it was only going to take my picture. That it wouldn’t suck the life right out of me as I sat there. Steal my soul. No amount of my mother’s coaxing, or shoving me back behind the curtain, or blocking the exit with her body could subdue my flailing, wailing, escape attempts. Nor could the pleas of my mother, who had dumped a bunch of money into the evil box, convince me to sit still and wipe that look of sheer terror off my young face. Nope. Maybe that’s why there’s only one photo from this episode, stuffed into an album for posterity’s sake. The rest were of an empty booth.