My Fucking Afterlife

I hopped onto the circulation desk and sat facing the entrance. It wasn’t peak hours, but I was bored and this was kind of my spot. The electronic doors opened and a freshman guy entered. I just knew. For one, it was still early in the semester, and secondly, he paused to take in the massive lobby area. His eyes wandered around the open atrium, the entrances to the historical collection rooms on either side, the open mezzanine levels above, the central stairs leading to the lower levels, and finally to the desk and me.

“Umm, where would I find biographies?” he asked. He wasn’t bad looking at all, but he needed to dress a little better to draw a girl’s serious attention. I pegged him as an engineering major.

I pointed to the stairs. “Down a level, around to the left and about 3/4 of the way back. Keep going until you see 921 on the end of the shelves. There will be a bunch of them.”

He didn’t reply. They never do.

Tina, behind me, asked, “General biographies or something from our special collections?”

“Oh, uh, just general ones. I’ve got to find someone to write a report on. Steve Jobs or somebody like that.”

“Okay, sure.” I heard her typing away. “Okay, it’s down a level? And, there will be a map on a pedestal in front of you. You’re looking for… let me look again… 921.”

“Great! Thanks!” he said and wondered off.

“Fucking hell, Tina,” I said. “You work here. Learn the fucking Dewey Decimal system and the fucking layout of the library, why don’t you?” I voiced a frustrated growl, all for naught. She didn’t hear me either. I was in a mood. There just wasn’t anything to do. Or, rather, there wasn’t anything new to do.

As I was grousing, the doors opened again and Tim entered, all 6’6″ of him. I knew he was on the basketball team, and I knew just about every glorious inch of his body. But he didn’t bring along a fucking girlfriend. That was extremely disappointing. I mean, help a girl out, Tim. Any of them would do.

Well, just triggering the memory of him fucking a girl stirred a certain desire in me, so I did my thing. It never paid off, but you never know. It’s not like my life is like Groundhog Day. My nipples, bless them, responded to my lusty thoughts. I scooted back on the desk a bit, spread my legs and set my feet on the edge. My shaved cunt was right there for him to see, lick, finger or fuck, all nice and pink. And he did what they all do: walked right by without a look.

That’s my fucking afterlife.

Life. Ha. Some life!

Here’s some interesting bits. I died naked. Nope, wasn’t wearing a stitch. Apparently, if you die not wearing a fucking stitch and you become a fucking ghost, your afterlife is spent fucking naked. I can’t speak for other ghosts. I haven’t met one. But the frustrations of ghostly life quickly take a toll. Without any other real means of expressing that frustration, I’m left with the regular use of course language. I didn’t used to say fucking this and fucking that, but now I do. You’re fucking forewarned.

Now, I gotta say. I’m a hot little package. I’m 5’5″, a former High School cheerleader – toned and blubber free, with dyed dirty blonde hair, TV-ready whitened teeth, piercing blue eyes that lean a little grey, button nose, pert tits that jiggle but don’t bounce, and a nice tan all over except for a patch of white skin you know where that would horrify my mom if she ever saw how small it is.

I know. I’m sounding a bit self-absorbed. Well, just you wait!

My nails look great! They’re shiny red with a strip of silver at the edge. And, lucky me, I shaved just hours before I died because I was going on a date. Well, not much of one, really. Because I was going to have sex, then. So, listen up. If you’re going to fucking die and be a ghost, make sure you look good beforehand. You don’t want to walk around for the rest of your fucking afterlife with hairy legs, do you?

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?