A text msg conversation between my husband, who--a little background--has severe anxiety and believes in ghosts.
COLE: Doing OK?
ME: Yes. Well mostly. I sort of died.
COLE: What? Are you OK? Do I need to come home??
ME: No no. It's fine. The kids got it covered. They're digging my grave. [I text him a picture of the kids digging with shovels in the garden.] But you might wanna bring home some toilet paper. We're almost out.
ME: For them. Not me. Heh. What would I do with TP? There's no crappers in the afterlife.
COLE: Is your sister there? You really OK?
ME: Sure. I'll probably stick around to haunt you for a while. I mean the kids will need reminders to brush their teeth. What do you think, the words in a foggy mirror trick?
ME: Chris isn't here, but if you want I can pop over and haunt her too. I'll take Gavin's fishy blanket to cover my head. Then it won't be so scary for her.
[20 min. later]
ME: Are you driving home to make sure I'm not really dead?
COLE: No. Sounds like you're on drugs.
ME: Can I get a leopard print-lined coffin? And I wanna be buried with my Weezer albums.
COLE: This is not funny anymore.
ME: See you later, party pooper. = /
See if I haunt you when I really die. No way. I'm hauling my ethereal ass around to find out what really happened to JFK ...And a quick stop at Sylvia Plath's. I've got a few questions for her.
But I was serious about the toilet paper.