I'm sitting on the couch, legs pulled up to my chest, chin resting on my knees. My eyes are glued to the screen. My friends and I are watching The Mist. In the movie, a group of people is entering an abandoned drugstore. Everything is dark and dusty. The characters have just discovered a man, covered in cobwebs, suspended from the ceiling. They pull him down and he starts to shake. Blood squirts from his face. His chest bubbles up. He falls forward and his back ruptures as hundreds of freaky little spider-like creatures emerge and scamper over the floor. A shiver runs down my spine. I giggle, shuddering from my shoulders to my toes with a mixture of discomfort, shock and glee. Mostly glee.

I’ve been in love with horror movies since high school. It’s a relationship that has required a lot of explaining over the years, particularly to my parents. I tell them horror movies send messages about the way people relate to each other or touch on social issues such as consumerism. I tell them these things partly because I think they’re true, and partly because it’s impossible for me to explain the giddy feeling I get when I see a zombie take a bite out of someone’s shoulder. Talking about the practical aspects of horror movies is as close as I come to justifying my love for them.

I think horror movies really do have a lot of lessons people can benefit from. Because so many of these movies fit the same formula, these lessons keep getting repeated, and eventually applying them to daily life just feels natural.

Here are just some of the life lessons I’ve learned from horror movies.

Your problems are never really over when you think they’re over.

As a writer and a student, revisions are a necessary evil. Even after the last word of the last sentence of the last paragraph is written, the work isn’t done. It’s like dealing with Michael Myers or Freddy Krueger. No matter how many times they get slaughtered, they always resurrect for another movie. Whenever I turn in a project, I’m reminded of that scene in Halloween when everyone thinks Laurie’s killed Michael Myers with a hanger in his eye. As she breathes a sigh of relief, he quietly sits up behind her, wire hanger protruding from the eyehole in his mask. Later, he gets shot six times in the chest, and somehow still comes back for Halloween II. In this respect, horror movies have taught me that even if it feels like the job is finished, you always have to be prepared for round two. Or, sometimes, round 20.

You should always embrace diversity. Everyone’s got something to offer.

Remember in kindergarten, when your teacher taught you that everyone is good at something? In horror movies, this lesson proves to be absolutely essential for survival. In Shaun of the Dead, for example, one of the characters is an actress. By showing her friends how to imitate a zombie, the group is able to make its way through a massive crowd of the undead relatively undetected.

What this has taught me is that when you’re in a tight spot, it’s important to consider who’s around you to help you out. I live in a scholarship hall with roughly 50 other women. This means I’ve got people around who can help me with just about anything, including proofreading, math or physics. In zombie movie terms, that’s like having an explosives expert, an army strategist and an expert marksman on my side. Never underestimate your friends’ abilities. They might help you out on a tough assignment, or save you from certain destruction.

Don’t let your curiosity take over your sense of self-preservation.

I can’t count the number of horror movies with plots that start because someone starts messing around with stuff they shouldn’t. The technical, movie-biz term for this is Pandora’s Box, but I call it “the Alien rule.” In Alien, the problems start when John Hurt’s character explores an abandoned spaceship, and sticks his head into a nest of suspicious-looking alien eggs. Wouldn’t you know it, an egg opens up, a face-hugging alien latches itself onto Hurt’s noggin and implants him with spawn. Later on, the crew is enjoying dinner when Hurt starts coughing. He can’t stop. He starts choking. He throws himself onto the table, writhing and seizing up. Suddenly, his chest explodes open, and the baby alien that’s been incubating inside him this whole time rears its little head and skitters out of the room like a toy racecar. That baby grows into a nasty sucker that offs nearly the whole crew.

The lesson here is if something looks like it’s no good, then it probably is no good. Sometimes, this means not eating food that looks potentially fatal. Maybe if I’d watched Alien before my high school student exchange trip to Russia, I might not have eaten a slice of pizza that made me so sick I ended up in the hospital. Other times, it means keeping an objective distance in an argument that could damage my relationships with the people involved if I take sides. Horror movies have taught me that if something looks like it shouldn’t be touched, I should probably leave it alone.

You have to find the hidden meaning in everything.

There are loads of other morals to be learned from horror movies. Lessons such as always doing research when planning secluded cabin vacations, or never picking up a hitchhiker spring to mind. I’ve also learned not to mess with the occult, because that never ends well for anyone.

I’ve always felt that it’s important to figure out what messages a movie is sending to its audience. Take what you can from that message.

Horror movies, in addition to being a lot of fun, can offer a lot if viewers pay attention. In my case, they’re a manual for survival — not just against the supernatural, but against situations I face every day.