So ghosts have it out for me. Or at least, that’s my theory.
And I don’t say that because they’ve haunted, taunted, or made my life a living hell. But rather, it’s because they don’t even give me the time of day.
All my life I’ve been persona non grata to all things spooky—cast out of the paranormal clubhouse by the Powers That Be, left to quiver in the bitter cold of supernatural rejection.
I don’t know what it is that keeps the spirits from making nice (or even mean) with me. I may not totally believe they’re real, but that shouldn’t stop them from trying to convince me, right? It’s not like I don’t have an open mind. I mean, I’ve tried weed lube, orgasmic meditation, and even pumpkin spice lattes!
“They’re delicious!” people say. “Just give the old pumpy spicy a chance!”
Year after year, I taste. And year after year—it’s like spoiled piss with milk in it.
I want to know what I’m missing.
I want to understand.
I want to believe.
And yet, all my life, there hasn’t been one sinister shadow in a corner, no distorted screams, no sparkling apparitions, no unexplained slammed doors, no incubi having their way with me in the night. The only time I’ve ever had something scary pass through me was when I ate that fourth fajita in the span of 10 minutes.
What really chaps my ass is that so many people I know have had encounters with spectral species. And not even just my crazy friends who do ayahuasca in Peru and put “magical crystals” in their pussies. But like actual, average people who go to work and mow their lawns and function in the modern world.
I wonder what a girl has to do to get Casper to come a-callin’!
Perhaps ghosts don’t like me because I’m ambivalent about their actual existence, so they don’t waste their time on someone who isn’t good to go. And I mean like, down to FUCK.
Seriously: When did our world amass so much ghost erotica? And why is there so much ghost sex happening now? Is phantom-fucking the new norm?
And if so, I think that the creators of Law and Order should consider a new SVU—a Spirits Victims Unit. What a moneymaker that would be.
I mean, just saying.
Anyway, if ghosts do exist, they obviously think I’m a fucking loser who doesn’t deserve to be haunted. Or even worse, they just don’t think about me at all. That’s enough to give any narcissistic writer a heart attack. I guess if that happened, at least then I might die and
K N O W T H E T R U T H.
It’s my hope that spirits—if they do in fact exist and are floating around the Internet—will see this post as a cyberspace welcome mat, a place to wipe their toes, talons or whatever phalanges they have, before paying me a visit in the real world.
(Yes, I have it on good authority that mystical beings can live inside computers and robots. Exhibit A obviously being Buffy Season 1, Episode 8—I Robot… You, Jane. And yes, I do want to see how many times I can reference Buffy in everything I write for the rest of my life.)
So ghosts! Puh-puh-lease come and scare the fuzzy slippers off my feet!
Sigh. Exhale. Fuss.
Anyway…
While we await my first spirit tête-à-tête…
Here’s a story about my FIRST-EVER GHOST HUNT.
I spent four hours locked in an old house in the French Quarter with a bunch of strangers, and a lot of unexpected things went down.
I didn’t see any actual ghosts, obviously, but I did leave the house feeling shocked, confused, sweaty, and forever changed. I hope you feel the same way when you’re done reading about it.
I love you.
You’re perfect.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Krissy
P.S. May you all be visited by the spirits of ritually sacrificed dead birds. And may you all write to me about it as soon as fucking possible. I’m just dying to write a Turkey Tales from the Crypt story.
Kaythankyouplease.
