Here's an early ghost story for you. Ooo. Scary how slow the page loads, huh? Foreboding? Or perhaps, just my shitty connection here at work.

Kinda makes you think though, doesn't it? Wonder if my mom still has some of those ugly paintings I did in college. Even though she threw away all my purposely phallic pottery, I'm bound to have at least one or two hideous pinch pots left for sale. All I need to do is whip up a good one about it being haunted. Why don't I think of these things sooner? Because I'm not really that good at making up ghost stories. The last time I did that, I made up a good one about this old craggly woman, oh yes who was a giant, who lived in our attic, and when she got hungry, she'd poke her finger down the bathroom vent and stab the victim with her colossal, red, sharp-pointy fingernail. Yeah. Stab 'em right in the head as they sat unaware and straining upon the deadly throne. Then she'd pull her fresh kill up the vent into the attic and eat 'em like a cocktail weenie.

Shortly after I made up that whalloping tale, say a day or two later, a cockroach skittered down that vent and fell right on my head. And I'll never be the same. Never never never.