|
main menu: Julieville On Ghosts |
||
| I grew up in a haunted house. Yeah, I know. No such thing as ghosts. But I'm not the one you have to convince. Don't talk to me... talk to that house. That being said, I don't really believe in ghosts. All I can really think is what I would do if I were dead. I can't really see myself hanging about, rattling chains, and being generally malevolent. I mean, I'm dead, right? Why would giving people palpitations suddenly become the most important thing in my, er... life? How many spectral chuckles can you really get from inspiring terror in your former friends and relations? Are we so conceited as a species that we think dead people would want to come back just to spend even more time with us? If I were going to haunt someone, why would I haunt someone I loved? Better question, why would I haunt someone boring? Here I am, dead, and I choose to haunt my parents, rather then, say, Brendan Fraser? And why do haunts muck about in dreary houses, secluded on windswept moors, then why could be at Wrigley Field? Why are the dead supposed to be all concerned about justice, and revenge, but don't seem to have any problem hanging out with bats or spiders, or things of that ilk? They can whip up a healthy draft when they get riled; why can't they make the wind blow out when the Indians bat, but in the rest of the time? And what's with the clutter? I'm not much of a housekeeper, but I think if I were hanging around for all eternity, I'd at least tidy up a bit. I wouldn't even have to do dishes. I guess this is beside the point. Even if there are ghosts, and even if I were to become one, I don't think I'd do much haunting. If I get the chance, I plan to spend eternity in bed. Asleep. So, if you ever have a ghost, and it comes in, drinks a Coke, then takes a nap on your sofa, try not to wake me up.
Email me: |
