So my girlfriend wants to travel, and likes supernatural shit. I hate people. So much so I'd rather spend my time with the dead that probably don't even exist. A skeptic as a ghosthunter? There's a specific purpose...
The purpose is I'm not out to prove ghosts exist just for the fuck of it. I couldn't care less if spirits exist. I just figure if they DO exist. They have to have a science to them. Maybe "shadows" and "orbs" prove there's different species of ghost. Much like every living thing on the planet. As well, ghosts have to have some kind of rhythem.
As well, if ghosts exist. Perhaps they can prove useful to the living. Instead of just lingering around inside houses like your typical internet basement dweller..
I don't want to prove ghosts exist to bring peace to anybody's life or prove there's a life after death so we can all clap our hands knowing we as stupid, ape-like creatures get to exist on another dimension. I'm interested because I figure if ghosts can exist, that must mean they can feel pain or "not" exist. There has to be ways to kill "the dead".
Furthermore, maybe we could start some kind of supernatural arms race. They're beings of energy, energy has uses..
tl;dr. lick
ling to view the boring shit.
I am a zombie, and it's not so bad. I'm learning to live with it. I'm sorry I can't properly introduce myself, but I don't have a name anymore. Hardly any of us do. We forget them, like anniversaries and PIN numbers. I think mine might have started with a "T", but I'm not sure. It's funny, because back when I was alive, I was always forgetting other people's names. I am finding that irony abounds in the zombie life, an ever-present punch line. But it's hard to smile when your lips have rotted off.
Before I became a zombie, I think I was a businessman or young professional of some kind. I think I worked in one of those stifling office jobs in a highrise somewhere. The clothes clinging to the remains of my body are high-quality business-casual. Fine gabardine slacks, silvery silk shirt, red Armani power tie. I would probably look pretty sharp if my intestines weren't dragging at my feet. Ha.
We like to joke and speculate about our remaining outfits, since these final fashion choices are usually the only indication of who we were before we became no-one. Some people's are less obvious than mine. Jeans and a white t-shirt. Skirt and a tanktop. So we make random guesses.
You were a plumber. You were a barista. Ring any bells?
It usually doesn't.
No one I know has any specific memories. We recognize some things — buildings, cars, Armani ties — but context eludes us. We are here, we do what we do. We lack excellent diction, but we can communicate. We grunt and groan, we make hand gestures, and sometimes a few words slip out. It's not that different from before.
There are a few hundred of us living in a wide plain of dust outside some large city. We don't need shelter or warmth, obviously. We stand around in the dust, and time passes. I think we've been here for a long time. Despite my dragging entrails, I am in decay's early stages, but there are a few elderly ones here who are little more than skeletons with clinging bits of muscle. Somehow, it still extends and contracts, and they keep moving. I have never seen any of us "die" of old age. Maybe we live forever, I don't know. I don't think much about the future anymore. That's something that's very different from before. When I was alive, the future was all I thought about. Obsessed about. Death has relaxed me.
tl;dr. lick
ling to view the boring shit.
