The Best Part of Wakin' Up
It's 4:56 am, and I'm here, blathering away to you, dear readers, because I'm wide awake even though I really ought to be snoozing restfully like the rest of the East Coast right now.
The only reason why I continue to lie in bed right now instead of going downstairs, taking a nip, turning on the boob and zoning to The 50 Most Awesomest Worst Best Hairband Songs of All Time or becoming completely hypnotized by some coked-up woman on QVC selling the Only Make-up Kit I Will Ever Need is because it's positively freezing and I don't want to have to get out from under my nice cozy down comforter and the snoozing cats draped over my feet.
OK, fine. It's also because I'm afraid I'll run into a ghost. So certain am I that I am psychically in tune with my sixth sense that if there's a presence, I will feel it and I will be totally freaked. My hair will turn white and my face will freeze in a paralytic horror and I'll wind up in some State Facility in a permanently catatonic state rocking back and forth in the corner of some room with only a cot and a 6 x 6 inch window saying "I'll never te-ell-ell" over and over again.
What if I run into someone I know? What if they need me to help them Into The Light? I couldn't possibly do that in my ancient Morrissey shirt and paint-splattered sweats, no contacts on, my hair a complete mess. I would think I would at least need to brush my hair.
Now I've never actually seen a ghost, but I've had some strange experiences that one might call "run-ins" with people who've passed. Ask me about it another time. Now, I'm really starting to freak out, which may force me to throw on David Schwartz's* Michigan sweatshirt that serves as an invisibility cloak to spirits (a la the Hobbit cloak - or was it Harry Potter?**), run down the stairs as fast as humanly possible, grab something scotch-y, sprint into the den throwing myself under the covers and turning on the teevee right quick. Because turning on the teevee serves as a protective forcefield against all the bogeymen, hobgoblins and tortured spirits that are trying to communicate with me.
Maybe I should have my own show.
Wish me god speed and good luck. Off I go.
*David Schwartz is a mythical beast from many moons past who Daximus claimed to know. Somehow his sweatshirt has been in our possession for over a decade.
**I'm too freaked out right now to switch tabs and double check the accuracy of this information.
The only reason why I continue to lie in bed right now instead of going downstairs, taking a nip, turning on the boob and zoning to The 50 Most Awesomest Worst Best Hairband Songs of All Time or becoming completely hypnotized by some coked-up woman on QVC selling the Only Make-up Kit I Will Ever Need is because it's positively freezing and I don't want to have to get out from under my nice cozy down comforter and the snoozing cats draped over my feet.
OK, fine. It's also because I'm afraid I'll run into a ghost. So certain am I that I am psychically in tune with my sixth sense that if there's a presence, I will feel it and I will be totally freaked. My hair will turn white and my face will freeze in a paralytic horror and I'll wind up in some State Facility in a permanently catatonic state rocking back and forth in the corner of some room with only a cot and a 6 x 6 inch window saying "I'll never te-ell-ell" over and over again.
What if I run into someone I know? What if they need me to help them Into The Light? I couldn't possibly do that in my ancient Morrissey shirt and paint-splattered sweats, no contacts on, my hair a complete mess. I would think I would at least need to brush my hair.
Now I've never actually seen a ghost, but I've had some strange experiences that one might call "run-ins" with people who've passed. Ask me about it another time. Now, I'm really starting to freak out, which may force me to throw on David Schwartz's* Michigan sweatshirt that serves as an invisibility cloak to spirits (a la the Hobbit cloak - or was it Harry Potter?**), run down the stairs as fast as humanly possible, grab something scotch-y, sprint into the den throwing myself under the covers and turning on the teevee right quick. Because turning on the teevee serves as a protective forcefield against all the bogeymen, hobgoblins and tortured spirits that are trying to communicate with me.
Maybe I should have my own show.
Wish me god speed and good luck. Off I go.
*David Schwartz is a mythical beast from many moons past who Daximus claimed to know. Somehow his sweatshirt has been in our possession for over a decade.
**I'm too freaked out right now to switch tabs and double check the accuracy of this information.
posted by Oy Vey at 4:57 AM
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