Ghosts Don't Stink; Ghouls Can't Walk Through Walls

Hello two a.m. friends. Well, you are two a.m. friends to me because I am writing this at two a.m. I'd like to talk to you about the undead. I have an undead problem.

Ghosts follow me around these streets, you know. The memories of my pubescence stink up the sidewalks, the pathways, the old haunts. It isn't nice being stalked by your self. Your history. Do you know those times when you think of something embarrassing that you did and your cheeks flame up and you carefully watch every action you do to make sure you are not being an idiot when in fact taking all that time has made you look like a fool? Those kinds of things occur a lot when you move back to a town full of ugly specters. I see girls I knew in high school and hope to the left and the right that they do not remember me for the caustically defensive geek I was when they last knew me. I duck from the ghouls I used to be friends with because I know their chemicals and my compounds only form noxious gases now. And I walk the streets remembering the times I've spent on them, alone or with my father or my friends.

The girl in the park and I met on her birthday. That girl's best friend and I, dating through a tumultuous winter, two fumbling kids messed up in the dark. The boys and their milkshakes, crossing the tracks. The older friends and their basement games, dice and devils with sharp teeth, red lights. The three girls in one month, running through them like a box of tissues almost empty. Haven in the back of a used bookstore, older guys and staying out late, a twelve year-old boy. The fight in the snowlit twilight. Kisses by the train. Shouting "Fuck you" to the dark countryside. Smelling cigars and feeling safe. Getting sick off a balcony, telling everyone "I love you." Leaving and feeling free. These are the things I remember, the things you do not.

These are my ghosts. These are my ghouls, my goblins, my bumps-in-the-night. These are the things that make me flush with embarrassment or a grin to crack my lips apart. And no matter how hard I try, I can't kill them. I don't know if it's because I love these creatures or because I am simply incapable of murdering them due to some supernatural invincibility, but they will not disappear. I can't kill my past, but I can make sure my future is one thriving brilliant beast. A unicorn or a griffon or a beautiful girl or something regal like that.

So my two a.m. friends, I just wanted you to know this: I'm learning how to deal with having the undead for neighbours and stalkers and watchers and friends. It's not so bad, once you get past the smell.