Adventure No. 1
The Awakening
So…I died.
More surprising than my untimely demise is my ability to communicate
with you now. You see, as you read this,
there is a frustrated author asleep at her keyboard, unwittingly dreaming from
my muse. Poor girl will wake up
confused, the details vague. Where did
this come from? Did she write it? What
other explanation could there be?
She has no idea. Few of you
do. Once in a while, we run into an
authentic psychic, the Sighted Ones, but they usually leave us alone. Unless we are really kicking up disorder,
then they use their will to push us out.
Most of you humans, however, embrace oblivion with a full-bodied death
grip.
“Let’s go!” insists Harold, floating from foot to foot.
“I’m writing! Do you know how hard it is to press keys with no body?
Took me a long time to figure out, Harold, you can wait five more
minutes!” I snap. He huffs with impatience, but I know he’ll
wait for me.
Harold and I met at the Awakening.
That’s what it’s called here.
Humans think life is what you have in that body, but that’s really just
an incubation of sorts- a side journey- one of many, on the ladder of you. The Awakening is what happens when you leave
that body. You enter the Light, which is
a cleanser for the soul, to wash away the gunk you picked up in your lifetime. Like those silly ideas and beliefs that make
you feel bigger –or smaller- than you actually are, the claims which some of
you are willing to kill for. And you’re
left with the true you. Quite shocking
for some, but hey, I don’t make the design, I merely antagonize it, joyfully.
Harold got to his Awakening via a heart attack during a vigorous
activity with an elderly lady from his nursing home, which I will not describe,
mostly because the idea of Harold “doing it” makes me want to hurl, and hurl again. Harold’s body is 88, but his spirit is 25,
and his maturity level is about 12. I
liked him instantly.
My demise was much less entertaining than Harold’s, at least to
me. I slipped on a roll of toilet paper
that one of my useless dorm mates left out and smacked my head on the
sink. What’s worse, I was in my
panties…on laundry day…you know the ones.
Harold laughs his fool, old-man, head off every time he hears
that. Here’s a little known side fact
for you: when you die and go into your
Awakening, you go in the last image you identify with, usually the way you last
saw yourself. Yep. Me, meeting my Creator in the white fluffy
clouds and brilliant light of Heaven, in my ripped, saggy granny panties and a
worn, much beloved AC/DC tee, sleeves torn into a redneck tank top, and
mismatched socks.
Death is like that, it comes when it comes and nothing can deter it,
not even the fact that you’ll meet your loved ones on the other side in your
raggy, saggy underwear. Death won’t wait
for you to put on pants.
“Hehe, that’s pretty good; Death won’t wait for you to put on pants,”
Harold clucks through my shoulder.
I smile despite myself, Harold’s giggle is contagious.
As I was saying, ‘The Awakening’ can be intense, and a word to the
wise, you experience the effects of ALL of your actions when you die. You help a blind guy cross the street; you
feel the warm ripples of that action.
You slap someone down abusively; you get to experience the ripples of
that. So, you dirtbags, who set out to
hurt others on purpose, you’ll get to feel the effects of your actions all the
way out, through all of the people affected by your poor, selfish choices. We’ll reserve front row seats for it, too,
expect to be ridiculed. I have zero
tolerance for assholes, especially people who hurt children, the elderly or
animals.
“That’s right, you reap what you sow, bitches!” chimes Harold.
It is the one thing upon which Harold and I wholeheartedly agree.
There is more, however, once you get back up, if yours was a life paved
by poor choices and your Awakening was not a pleasant one, you are counseled,
healed and eventually restored. From
there, you are free to choose again. The
Heavens are merciful and the point is development of the soul, so even if you
are a real shithead, there is still hope for you.
I was delighted to learn that we are free to choose again. Harold and I
chose to hang out here for a while, neither of us felt ready to move on just
yet. And we have a pretty good time,
too.
We have a mission, a purpose of sorts, now.
“Come on! Skinny Santa’s on the move!” Harold insists again.
“Okay! Don’t get your dentures in a bunch, old man!”
That brings me to my point.
We have decided to stand for the innocent and Skinny Santa is the first
scumbag aligned in our crosshairs.
Skinny Santa is a guy who looks like Santa only, well, skinny, and he
is a real turd. We’ve been watching him
every day. He rides his bike down to the
Laundromat to harass the sweet old lady who works there 15 hours a week for $7
an hour to barely afford her wide array of prescription meds. She believes she has to tolerate his abuse or
lose her job.
Harold and I are sick of it. We
have a plan. We have decided that what
the world needs is a little vigilante justice, specter style. We are willing to withstand the effects of
our actions on behalf of the innocent humans down there dealing daily with
scumbags like Skinny Santa.
Our frustrated author, who is better than she realizes, is about to
awaken to this interesting tale on her virtual notepad. (I can’t wait to watch
her face while she reads it!) Then
Harold and I are off to –literally- put a stick in the spokes of Skinny Santa’s
life.
The moral of this story: If you
harass little old ladies, you get road rash on your face.
Don’t make us come for you, too.
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