Because I’m grumpy and bloated and pretty much just sitting around eating chocolate and casseroles (blog on casserole cooking to come), I asked readers to come up with some words that I could blog about. It’s just So Much Effort thinking up things myself. In the first sentence alone, I mentioned three of the words, so I feel like my work here is done. Still….
One of the words was submitted by my dear college friend Rae. We were roomies a long time ago, when we took ourselves very seriously and wore dark red lipstick and went to plays and acted in plays and musicals and talked about love and heartbreak. So, pretty much we’re exactly the same…maybe just a little softer. The word she suggested was GHOSTS.
I have spent a fair amount of my time obsessed with the idea of ghosts. I love ghost stories and scary movies. I love good stories in general…but GHOST stories…there’s just something about them. They seep into your skin, infect your subconscious, call to you in your sleep. Also, when you watch a good scary movie, they can make your husband scream like a little girl and you will have to comfort him and this will make you feel like a powerful, modern woman. Uh…Hypothetically speaking.
I have only had two direct ghost experiences. The first happened when I was in my early twenties and I felt a peculiar heat and tingle in the center of my lower back. This sensation happened every now and again and I was certain that it was because someone from Beyond was trying to get me to listen. Like, I was pretty sure that there was a message coming to me and the heat and prickling sensation was just the static of Afterlife tuning.
I listened…and listened…and then realized that the peculiar sensation was from the tattoo I got. They’d shaved my lower back because I’m a hairy mother fucker, and the hair was starting to grow back. So. Uhm. Not the Afterlife.
The other true story was in my rickety old apartment with my roommate Keeley. The house had a huge lightning rod and just felt plain creepy. (The landlord was old and wore super-shorts that were so tight we couldn’t help but notice his ENORMOUS balls sausaged in there. I mean, we’re talking, ELEPHANTINE).
In the apartment, Keeley and I heard strange things, saw shifting shadows, felt weird vibes, and I’m pretty sure there was some moaning one night. Of course, the house was filled with theater people so who knows WHAT was the cause of all that moaning.
One night, I came home to an empty house, went into my room, and felt IT. A presence. A disturbance. Then I noticed that the clocks in my room WERE TURNED AROUND. No one had been in the apartment and I knew Keeley had been at work all day and was, in fact, still there, since I’d just seen her there. So I did what any normal, well-adjusted female with the tendency to be dramatic would do. I. Fucking. Freaked.
Keeley later confessed that she’d given her dad keys to the apartment and he snuck in and moved everything around.
Come to think of it, he was probably hiding in my closet moaning. (And if that’s true, I’m truly sorry to think of what he might’ve found or witnessed in there.)
So. My two true ghost stories aren’t really ghost stories at all. I DO believe in ghosts, but I think most ghosts exist in our own psyche in truly terrifying ways.
I don’t know. Maybe I’ll finally have my real ghost-encounter. After all, I’m off to New Orleans in a few weeks to see Rachel and one of our other college roomies. If we don’t encounter ghosts, we’ll at least look really scary in the morning after a night on the town.