Real Ghosts Don’t Ghost
As a ghost, I’m tired of this dating term “ghosting.” It offends all actual ghosts. Personally, I’m proud to haunt you wherever you are. Following you around while you go about your daily tasks, knocking cups off the table to remind you of my presence, and making distant noises in my ghoulish voice while you try to sleep.
Real ghosts don’t go around cutting contact without explanation. We obsessively try to make contact. Appearing before your anxious pets, emitting foul odors around your loved ones, and possessing your phone to beg the police to investigate our mysterious deaths.
I spend most of my time floating as a spooky spirit, bound to this haunted swamp until someone returns me to my proper resting place. Or until they shut down the Strange Encounters Swamp Tour which keeps cruising over my mangled body and disturbing my peace.
We don’t suddenly become “too busy” to text you back. If you tried out the ouija board that you passed in the occult store, I would reply immediately: “End the pain. I am trapped; find my body please.” Also, “Richard is cheating on you with your neighbor Jean.”
There’s no “caspering” with us. Friendly ghosts don’t exist! There are only tortured, desperate ones like myself. I will only say goodbye when you find my mangled body. My body, by the way, is at the bottom of a swamp in Florida, from when I crashed my car and then was attacked by an alligator. Find that gator, find my body; only then will I leave you in peace.
I especially despise the term “breadcrumbing.” It’s annoying to get these vague messages that hint at meeting up but never actually lead to meeting up. The only breadcrumbs I will ever leave are the literal pieces of bread that flew out of my picnic basket as my body was thrown out of my car during the crash. Don’t leave breadcrumbs! They attract alligators.
Unlike your dates, I send no mixed messages. Specifically, I would like to meet you at 11 pm on the pier where the swamp tour starts. You’ll notice a cracked plank that has mold growing on it; this is where the gator snatched my body and pulled it into the lagoon.
You can be sure you’re not my backup. Rather, you are my only hope for release. You won’t get benched when a better option comes along. This is because I am not just here for your body, although I won’t lie I do want to possess it, literally.
I’ll admit I struggle with boundaries, especially the one between this world and the afterlife. I may Zoombomb you by appearing as a gruesome specter in the background of your video dates in my attempts to cross over. On the bright side, you don’t need to worry about social distancing with me, as I died years ago from blood loss. RIP.
Instead of leaving you guessing, I am emotionally responsible and persistent. I am always clear in my intention to keep in contact with you until you tell the police about the strange shapes floating in the bayou.
I won’t resurface months later to ask you if you’re DTF, though I might ask you if you’re DTFMB (Down To Find My Body).
When you find my body and I finally leave, I vow to send you a clear message. Perhaps with dripping moss on your wall thanking you for releasing me, wishing you good luck, and telling you that I enjoyed our time together, but the light is calling my name, and it’s such a shame the timing didn’t work out.
