Ghost Me All You Want. I’ve Hired Beetlejuice, F*ckers.

Know his name.

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It never hit me, in all those years of online dating, that other courses of action were available. I believed that my romantic life was a private matter, best dealt with on my couch on a Sunday evening or on the toilet before work, like an American. But recently I’ve come around to the notion that we’re allowed to ask for help when things get too overwhelming, too taxing, and quite frankly too scary to deal with on our own. Thus, I’ve retained the services of a professional, and you are all in deep shit.

For a contract term the dates of which are known only to me, Beetlejuice shall be dispensing with any and all ghostlike activity that should befall me at anyone hands. That’s right. The Ghost with the Most. The Bioexorcist. Michael Keaton’s most beloved work. He’s on my side now, he knows what you’ve done, and it is, indeed, showtime.

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It’s only natural, right? You should be dealt with by a member of your own kind. I’ve never been able to explain ghostly behavior and now that I have a professional in my employ, there’s so little to ponder. I wonder how I’ll fill all that time? Banana bread sounds nice.

Beetlejuice is aware of your propensity for vanishing, I’ve brought him up to speed. Everything from your garden variety ignored texts to full abductionlike disappearances after more dates than it is acceptable to employ that strategy. And while not particularly well-versed in manners and morality, he does take issue with men like yourselves voluntarily and in a most cowardly fashion walking away from a quality piece of ass like me.

I started brainstorming all manner of delightful ways for him to haunt you, my favorite of which is that you’ll never look at a urinal without fear again, but then it occurred to me, he’s the pro. Let him come to the table with ideas! Let him earn his retainer, you know? Oh, you peasants. He did.

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He’s going to show up to your office dressed as a delivery man to confirm receipt of the industrial size bag of cat hair you ordered. He’ll pop in during every date you have within the calendar year to collect the money you owe him for all those salvaged human teeth. Each time your attempt to order pizza for the rest of your natural life, it will taste like steamed cabbage. He’s already replaced your laundry detergent with dogpiss. All of your condoms have holes.

And these are just jumping off points, really, I’m allowed to upgrade to the VIP package at my leisure. What’s nice is that I don’t feel alone. I don’t feel like I’m the only one dealing with the shameful and quite frankly basic behaviors of the modern day mildly attractive single man. I don’t have to just sit there and take it anymore, washing it away with wine and guided meditation and breath work so that I don’t turn into, ironically, a demon from the years of mistreatment heaped upon me. It feels so good to have backup. Worth every penny, really.

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It isn’t consequence-less anymore, the dating. Moving forward, all men in my orbit will have to face the extremely rancid music. This pleases me. For too long I’ve been the one receiving the business end of bad behavior, with the men who dole it out moving on with their lives faster than an apparition rounds a corner. But no more. Now they’ll deal with what they’ve done to me, it is inescapable. He is inescapable. He also smells like gym shoes.

Trouble with the living? Oh, my darlings. Not anymore.

Written by

NPR once called me a humor essayist, let’s go with that. Host of A Single Serving Podcast. shanisilver[at]gmail

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