Ghosts and Things

     You know that fly that knows exactly how to get under your skin? I'm talking about the one that, despite it being the size of a pea and mostly irrelevant in life, manages to amplify the sound of the beating of its wings by 10,000% by perfectly positioning itself against a single venetian blind - whose acoustical inclination is to echo directly into your ear canal - because, well, he thought you could use the second alarm. That fly, he wasn't here today, but cookie monster was...at the bottom of a giant toy chest pressed up against one of Emilia's light-up toys, which, in all fairness, was putting on a seizure-inducing laser light show equally as jarring visually to my groggy eyes as hearing Darc's cookie monster whimper his final words, " Meee loooove coooookiees" was to my ears. Apparently nobody warned him of Diabetes. 
     Lately, disturbing stuff like this has been happening more frequently at our apartment - a hotwheel, strategically placed bedside awaiting the vulnerability of my fragile feet; an incoherent, possibly satanic, hieroglyphic scribbled violently in orange crayon not more than 2 feet high on the bathroom wall; piles of crumbs - ones that rival those made by Chris Christie when eating, well, pretty much anything - that create Saharan sand dunes of our quaint, recently cleaned couches. 
     Normally, I'd chalk it up to having kids, I mean, who wouldn't, but my mom assured me that my kids can do no wrong. So that leaves only one other explanation: a Poltergeist. 
     I'll be honest with you, though, I'm not as freaked out about it as I thought I would be. I mean, if grimy little hand prints on the TV and half-finished water bottles are the best thing this ghost has got, then bring it on. In fact, I hope it never leaves or gets older and changes its habits. I hope it stays this way forever.