Geist

[Geist (DELETED 6525)]

If you were an exceptionally smart reader, you might stop reading right now, at this very moment, at this very letter, or, surely, before the end of this sentence and paragraph even arrive.

If you're a mildly intelligent reader, you might choose to stop reading, now.

In fact, I'm begging you not to continue, because there's nothing for you, here.

If you're still reading -- I hope you're not -- I'm going to assume that you're one of the following:

• o1. Masochistic.
  o2. Just plain stupid.

In the case of the second, I'll try to prevent mincing words.

What follows is a sordid account of Marcel Geist's small and irrevocably meaningless existence.

[Geist (DELETED 6525)]

I would say he holds opinions, but I would be lying.

He has none -- at least none of any grave import.

He does enjoy a drink, a cigarette, and a good meal, but he can't really enjoy any of those things now that he's the victim of some nameless mystery disease.

If you put 'nameless mystery disease' into your search engine of choice (which he had), the results are unfavorable.

If you put 'I want to drink people's blood' into the same search engine (which he had), or any other search engine, really, there's a slew of results imploring you:

o1. Seek immediate psychiatric assistance.
o2. Join any number of BDSM countercultures.
o3. Join any number of vampire-based and/or -related forums.

The first of which does seem like the best answer, but is not high on Marcel Geist's list of things he would like to do.

A list of things Marcel Geist would like to do looks like this:

o1. The woman in apartment 4B.
o2. Eat a fried egg and mayonnaise sandwich without throwing up.
o3. Drink himself into catatonia (throwing up optional, as drinking oneself into a blacked-out stupor and profusely vomiting walk hand in hand).
o4. Not puke (especially before the affects of any number of alcohols have taken a hold).

You may not be surprised to find that Marcel Geist will do none of these things, at least not in the near future, and he definitely will not be sleeping with the woman in apartment 4B, who is married and who wouldn't sleep with Marcel Geist, regardless of whether she was married, or not, which she is. (Not that it matters.)

"Unfortunate," Marcel mumbles to himself as he's greeted by the prospect of never sleeping with the woman in apartment 4B. A lot of the time, Marcel's mumbling draws unwanted attention from people he:

o1. Doesn't know.
o2. Will never know.

For the most part, he's learned to live with my humble narration of his entire life.

He often thinks of my perpetual voice-over as a monotonous drone, having no effect, whatsoever, on his daily dealings and typical functions.

[Geist (DELETED 6525)]

At one point, Marcel consulted a psychiatrist about his predicament.

His predicament, here, being that he can hear everything I say.

Suffice to say, the medication did not work.

After consulting the psychiatrist, he consulted a psychic medium who quickly informed Marcel that he was being followed around by a ghost.

The ghost, specifically, of a failed British novelist in a bath robe. (More on the bath robe, later.)

Marcel asked if there was anything he could do to rid himself of his problem, and was jovially informed that he could pay a steep price for an exorcism and a stolid number of cleansing rituals, two of which had to do with blood-letting and one of which involved him being naked.

He declined the offer and has dedicated (for the most part) himself to trying to completely ignore me, ever since. Isn't that right, Marcel?

"Cheers," Marcel mumbles in the dingy kitchen of his apartment as he tries to force down another round of beers and shots.

I know and you know that this will, inevitably, fail.

[Geist (DELETED 6525)]

You may find yourself wondering about my bath robe.

I'm often very glad I didn't die naked, like a few other ghosts I know, or in formal wear. That would be incredibly uncomfortable.

I died with a cup of coffee in my hand, while lounging on my back porch, smoking a cigarette, trying to breath life into my recently-hyper-criticized prose. (Some people don't understand genius.)

The plus side to my robe-coffee-cigarette ensemble is this:
o1. I never have to refill.
o2. I never have to relight.
o3. My house slippers will never deteriorate any further than they have.

You may find yourself wondering about the circumstances of my death. I often find myself wondering just what has occurred, too. I can't quite remember.

Back to Marcel, who, after vomiting up what alcohol he tried to ingest, is now preparing himself for a night shift in the local emergency room.

Fortunately for Marcel, he's somewhat of a night owl, so he hasn't, yet, stepped out into the blistering sun.

When he does, he will get burnt, and will, inevitably, put, 'the sun burns me,' into his search engine of choice, at which point the internet, again, will implore him to join any number of vampiric subcultures, or to wear some god-damned sunscreen.