I've got something even better. I. Don't. Age. How's that? Yep. Things are shaping up that I'll be a hot little package eternally. Fucking awesome, right? Only, no one can appreciate me except me.
I'm going to whine some more. Maybe the idea of being a ghost will haunt you.
Those TV shows or whatever have it all wrong. I'm not a pale, wispy see-thru apparition. I don't have chains or a sheet with eye holes or rotting body parts. And, now having had time to think about it, I'll invite you to think about it to. I wish I could fucking hear you think. I need the company and the help.
Starters. Let's say I was wearing them when I died. Why would I have clothes? They didn't fucking die. Just li'l ol' me. So far, I haven't bumped into any other ghosts, naked or not, so I'm not sure on this, but me, myself and I had a rigorous debate and concluded that whether in life or death, it just makes sense you enter it naked. Fuck Hollywood and their PG ratings.
To my eyes, I look just as real as a ghost as I did before I died. I can't really see all of my back side or really check out my hair, but I think it's all the same. Mirrors and reflective surfaces don't seem to work. Nope, no unusually long canines, either. I checked. I can poke my skin, and it'll bend and turn pale or red or whatever. But I can't feel a
fucking
thing. You understand my
fucking
emphasis, right?
I've got forever to think of my life's regrets, but here's an unexpected one. I was never into science because like, why should I? Right? But now, I have questions. I'm sitting on the desk. That works. I can walk on the floor. I can walk on steps. I can't float around all spooky like. So, I can walk on stuff and sit on stuff. That's helpful.
But what holds me up? I mean, it's not like I want to pass through the earth and end up in fucking China. But, if I did, it doesn't make sense for me to fly off into space, or sink right back to here. So, there's a gravity thing in play. I don't understand gravity either, but it's at least a scientific thing that I can trust in. So, gravity works on ghosts but matter stops me from falling to the center of the earth, I'm thinking. As bored as I get, it kind of interests me.
Why? Well, not just because I'm fucking bored. If there's a law of gravity, and matter supports me, what the fuck is up with whatever the law of matter is? I can walk through closed doors. See the inconsistency? What the fuck is up with that? I mean, it's helpful because I can't open them either.
Let's review. Feet work on floors. Hands, too. All of me works on floors. Or desks. I've tried everything and all good.
Hands don't work on doors. Or doorknobs. Or anything else other than general surfaces where I'd normally expect to be able to walk or sit.
Makes no fucking sense.
But wait, there's more! Because you know there's more to being a fucking ghost. I can pass through a closed door, but I can't pass through a wall. I mean, why the hell not? Door? Yes. Wall? No. smh! That's "shaking my head" for any illiterates.
Okay, and here's another bogus abuse of reality. I can pass through doors, but I can't pass through exit doors. The library is literally my world.
You take those few facts and then maybe you'll understand. I'm in a library, where I might become the most learned ghost every, and I can't read a fucking book. Imagine that. I can read, don't get me wrong. But I can only read whatever pages are open. I can't
turn
the fucking page. Some of these books might have answers for me. Science. Religion. Physics. Whatever. Fuck them all. And fuck me.
Now, I'm not completely without access to news. Laptops can be helpful. Just like pages pass through my fingers, I can sit, like, "in" somebody's space while they do their thing. I get no gratification out of it, if that's what you're thinking. It's just weird to see bits of two people in the same place. What idiot made these rules?
Yeah, yeah. I don't have to sit. I could stand. I don't get tired. I don't sleep. But laptops are easier to read when you're sitting, so I sit. And that's how I keep up with the date, the news, and the usual shit that happens in the world that I happen not give a fuck about anymore. Bored. Maybe I do give a fuck. I keep hoping for confirmation that Betty White
really
died. Hashtag fake news?
And then there's smart phones. You ever wonder what people do with their smart phones? Of course you do. They do the same things you do with yours when other people can't see. Well, the library is apparently where you go to avoid prying eyes on your cell phone. I pry, because I fucking can.
Relationship drama, for example, makes fine reading, I've got to tell you. Better, the students here are pretty horny! I mean, I know what I did, but other than girl talk, I didn't have a sense of what was really going on. The stories I could tell.
Well, those stories are mostly what keeps me alive, pardon the pun. It's not like I can work myself into an orgasmic frenzy, because some cosmic dice roll dictated that ghosts can't feel anything. But, hey, a lot about sex is mental, and I can at least see my body respond. Sometimes. Like when watching Tim, the basketball player, stuff his amazingly long cock down a girl's throat in the bathroom.
Like I said, I pry. And I'm not shy about it. Non-participatory sex is pretty much the fucking highlight of the ghostly life, and I'm drawn to it wherever I can find it. And fuck campus wi-fi for blocking porn. So annoying.
The upper floors are all open desks and workspaces, but the lower floors have these little cloistered study desks where the horny go. I didn't have to wait to be a ghost to find that out. And that's where those who with some imagination go. You know... sexting. Selfies. And thank you, FaceTime. A video is worth a thousand words is it not? You betcha.
So, it's just naked me, being wherever I want to be as long as I'm in the library. The exit doors somehow know not to let me out. Who the fuck made these rules? I haven't figured that out, and all I'm left with is that ghosts are stuck where they fucking died. And the library is where I fucking died.
I liked Roger. I mean, I didn't like his name. Roger? But you don't choose a guy for his name. I think. Anyway, he's a good guy. Helped me with some of my homework. Good to look at. Considerate. Liked to dance. Liked to show this hot little package off to his Frat brothers, which is fun. But he didn't just do that when I was dressed for a date or half trashed. A good guy.
Liked to fuck. He wasn't arrogant, but once I understood how good a fucker he was, I understood his confidence in approaching me. Big beautiful dick and big balls. I can't say big beautiful balls, because are they? Really? No. But damn, when they slapped me as he was fucking me, yeah. Big beautiful balls.
Sometimes, roommates got in the way when a girl wants to play. Urges have to be met. What to do? Find some bushes at the edge of campus? Find a golf fairway at night? Well, been there done that. But... hey, the library is fucking convenient for indoor sex. And unlike Tina, who gets fucking paid to work here, I did my homework.
There are places in the bowels of the library where people just don't go. It's the last of the subfloors. There's not a book there I'd want to read in my desperate condition. Yawn. It doesn't smell musty. It's got the same dim LED lights as on other floor, but not much goes down there, except girls like me.
It's great for sex, or at least for those like me with a little imagination. I, of course, am setting the world record for running around naked in this library, but real-life me probably has a firm hold on second place. It's like this. Go to that spot where you figure your stuff is safe. Your purse. Your cellphone. Your backpack. Right? Drop them there. Then drop your clothes. Then text your boyfriend, who by then is waiting to meet you at the entrance, that you're actually in the lowest level. Naked. If he can find you, he can fuck you. To encourage him, I texted a photo of my clothes and stuff, which I had put on a bookshelf. Game fucking on!
It's quiet down there. He wasn't being sneaky like he should. He was running this way and that, and I could duck as I wanted. It took him 15 minutes before I let him (Duh!), find me. When you're running around in a public space, it's pretty fucking exciting. But you're not running around to avoid your wet cunt from getting pounded with cock.
