Ghosts.

The twist is that Christina Ricci loves dead 8-year-old boys.

Against all measurable logic, I am afraid of ghosts.

Now, I know that belief in ghosts is illogical.  Like my parents’ two-story suburban shoebox could possibly haunted by the spirit of some 1800s prospector named Dirtsock Joe.  It is far more sensible to not believe in ghosts than it is to believe in ghosts.

But still, I find myself making nocturnal decisions with ghosts in mind.

Really dumb decisions, in retrospect.

You may recall the post I wrote about my trip to San Francisco about a month ago.  I’m ashamed to say, as I admitted in that post, that I had to sleep with a light on in my hotel room.  The entire rationale behind that?  It will keep ghosts away.

(I should point out that said hotel was supposedly haunted and turn-of-the-century old; it’s not like I just crashed at a Motel 6 and went gaaaah, ghosts!)

How dumb is that, though?  Keeping a light on?  Yeah, maybe against vampires.  Ghosts?  Would ghosts be afraid of a light?  No.  That’s absurd.  I don’t even know how I assured myself that leaving a light on would possibly deter ghosts.  At the time, though, it made complete sense.

For the record, no spirits visited me during my two nights in San Francisco.  I did see a crazy homeless guy selling hats and what I could only assume to be a werewolf given the absurd shortness of his jorts, but I saw no ghosts.  Experienced no haunting.  Heard no banging on the wall or moaning, unless you count the honeymoon suite next door.

Even in Indiana, though, I take measures to prevent myself from exposure to ghosts during the middle of the night, and yes, these fears heighten in the wee hours of the morning.  My favorite defense is usually closing and/or locking my door.  As if a ghost couldn’t just float through my door, needing not worry about unlocking or opening it.  I also like sleeping with a pillow over my head, as if a ghost would not possess the strength to lift a pillow from my face.  Or smother me with it.

I also find myself hopping great distances off my bed, in case anything might be lurking underneath, waiting to lock its frigid phantom-y fingers around my ankles and drag me to my death.  Sometimes, the fear of this happening causes me to sit in bed with a bulging bladder for unnecessarily-long stretches of time.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I still approach nighttime like an eight-year-old boy.  Christina Ricci hollaaaaa.

I also think about what it would like to be a ghost.  Would I be miserable?  Trapped?  Aimlessly haunting the hallways?  Assuredly not.  I would probably just haunt the living hell out of my friends, purely for entertainment.  I would be such a jerk if I was a ghost.  I would set your DVR to series record every Tyler Perry show.  I would put gluten in all of your gluten-free foods.  I would swap out your Justin Bieber music library with a Nicki Minaj music library.  And after I did all of those things, I would ding dong ditch you.  If I was particularly peeved, I might roll your house too.

It would be like Poltergeist IV, but less likely to kill you.

(For more on that joke, read up on the Poltergeist Curse and realize that I’m a horrible human being.)

So the moral of this story, this horrible, throwaway post, is that while I fear ghosts and do completely illogical things to ward them off, I would relish the opportunity to be one and troll the living hell out of my friends.  I would basically be like one of those douche ghosts that Casper hangs around and tries to convince not to be a douche ghost.  Except instead of finding peace or respecting the rights of the living, I would probably just dime Casper out to Dr. Venkman and continue trolling my way through eternity.

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