I think of myself as the kind of guy who’d get visited by ghosts. What I mean to say is that I don’t disbelieve in their existence, and really, I’m a nice, sensitive young man. I have spiritual beliefs that go beyond the corporeal. I’m easily freaked out by scary movies. I’d visit me if I were a ghost.

But they don’t visit me. Well, I take that back. In high school I consulted a ouija board with a couple of friends, and someone on the other side singled me out to tell me that he visited me and watched me.

“When?” I asked.

“At night”, he said.

Obviously that little statement stuck with me for a long time, throwing a little monkey wrench into my masturbation routine. “Are you watching me now?” I’d whisper. Just kidding. I didn’t say that.

I wish my mom would visit me sometimes. I find myself taking it personally that she doesn’t, like there’s something I’m not doing; something I’m forgetting. Maybe if I built a little shrine with her old photos and her rosary and some candles. Wait, I did that. Maybe if I spent more time with the lights out. Or praying in church. Or sitting by the ocean or something. Maybe she’s safely settled on the other side, eating key lime pie. Maybe it’s an exhausting journey. Maybe she’s dating Karen Silkwood.

Maybe I talk too much.

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