| When In Doubt, Duck And Cover |
[25 Oct 2007|02:59pm] |
My name is Hannah Flynn and I used to be a waitress. Now I’m a spirit in unrest. I bet you’re wondering how a sunny girl like me wound up pushing daisies instead of burgers. Well I’ll tell you. I’m employed by the Powers That Be…
That’s how I started the last entry in my journal, which I shall forevermore refer to as the Captain’s Log, on account of my lack of personal property. After all, nobody ever saw Jean-Luc Picard scribbling with a pencil and purple paper.
Anyway, hearing it, you might say to yourself, my that’s a nice opening line! That girl should keep on using it. In fact, it’s so good, it ought to be a voiceover on a supernatural TV show featuring the afterlife of Hannah Flynn, Ghost.
Segue: AAAAAAAHHHH!
Were you ever so embarrassed, you wanted to shrivel up and die? Or better yet, go invisible?
Lucky me!!! I’m both dead and capable of invisibility. I find that it’s mighty convenient right now, ‘cause I’d rather not, a) be seen, or b) look in a mirror.
The PTBs say it’s my fault I got caught up in the spell. I was on the earth-plane when it got cast, and since I was using my old body to be corporeal, it made me susceptible to the magic. I think that’s a bunch of bologna. Those PTBs are always about the blame, and it’s never theirs.
So here I am, exposed as The Girl Who’d Turn Into a Hussy If She Got Famous.
(Note to self: I’m totally ignoring the most humiliating part of all, which is how I had SEX with a STRANGER!!!!!!!!)
There’s some stuff I still don’t get. Like, did it really happen and got erased? Did it ‘never happen’ (but how’s that possible if I remember it)? And finally and most importantly,
Does the sex count?!
Looks like I turned poor Oliver Jerzyck into a necrophiliac. It guess it’s fitting, since we met in a cemetery and all.
(Another note to self: Find out if he remembers what I look like naked.)
They said the best thing to do’s pour myself into work and stop walking around, pretending like I’m a regular girl. Easier said than done, when I keep turning into one. I’m about to get a real good assignment. It better be good. Otherwise, I’m never getting the sweet mental image of that guy’s bare ass cheeks out of my head.
This is Hannah, signing off.
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| Better Late Than Never |
[25 Oct 2007|06:14pm] |
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mood |
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[[Non Journal Entry]]
The weirdest thing about this whole fucked up experience is that Joseph has every one of Joel’s memories and every conversation he ever had is echoing in his skull, like some taunting voice that reminds him every so often that he might just be going insane.
He’s beginning to wonder if maybe he’s schizophrenic, like maybe Joseph’s just an imaginary character that he’s pulled on so tightly that he can’t see beyond him, some kind of safety net when being Joel’s too much. Alternatively, maybe Joel was a figment of an overactive imagination belonging to a man stretched to the limit.
Joseph is trying to wrap his head around the fact that for God only knows how long he was this man called Joel who was an actor on a show called Birthright, and every one of his relationships and experiences are just things written in a script and none of them meant anything.
He supposes that is the scariest thing of all – that his life just didn’t mean anything, especially when he’s lived and breathed it for years and years. He has the memories and the scars to prove as much.
If he spends too long thinking about this he’s going to give himself a headache, if one isn’t already brewing. What Joseph needs is a drink and a drink is what he has, he downs a glass of scotch and lightning fast a memory surfaces and his stomach sinks.
He’s spent so long living what can only be described as a waking dream that he’s completely forgotten an important date and he’s pretty sure he can feel his mother’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his neck.
“Fuck,” he utters and drops his forehead to rest on his exposed forearms. A couple more curse words escape his lips before Joseph finally lifts his head, ordering one more glass and then considering making a trip to the nearest church sometime tomorrow morning.
He has his respects to pay; better late than never.
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