Ghost looking for my planchettist (character monologue)
[NSFW themes follow]
[I start almost every one of my character monologues with "hi girls." You can think of it as world's worst tradition. Rest assured, in friendship I do not discriminate by gender.]
Hi girls.
It’s been a while since one of you has tried to communicate with me. So I’m genuinely not fussed if your form is dark oak, or pine, or plastic forged with the sweat of Chinese slaves.
I am desperate.
Not because I am physically alone. I am surrounded by “ghost pals,” but these beings know nothing of my strife. Bizarrely content in their form, they glide through me with no social awareness, then act surprised when I don’t show up to the next Spooky Sunday.
It's not like I meet anyone deathly interesting there anyway. Yippee another insufferable incubus who murdered someone 500 years ago and proceeded to make it their whole personality. Can't wait to brush presences with the daemon who lives in the attic, content to live out his days inflicting minor jump scares upon pseudo documentary crews.
Last night I presented some of these 'ghost hunters' with definitive proof of my existence, but they couldn't have been less interested. Apparently, to win the admiration of such glorified ghoul ganderers, one must have choked an elderly realtor in Switzerland; or perhaps, apropos of nothing, I should seek to possess the form of your late grandmother's creaky rocking chair, because?? reasons??? No—all I bring to the living world are nonsensical monologues that are just a bunch of words, and the occasional unprompted Zibaldone.
Please don’t mistake my frustration for ingratitude; I was delighted to be given the opportunity to become a ghost, and certainly don’t take it for granted. I would never use my powers to tepidly move a pen across your desk for no fucking reason, nor waste my energy opening doors when no one is in the vicinity, nor indulge in any of the countless other "fun" activities rampant in the ghost community—all of which serve no purpose besides the upholding of otiose tradition.
I am tired.
Let me talk with you, one letter at a time. Cast thy fingers upon thy planchette. I will do my best to be succinct so as not to cause you undue repetitive strain. For you, our conversation will be arduous, exhausting—but you’ll never know a more grateful ghost.