I Really Didn’t Want To Be This Person But I Can No Longer Deny That I Am Living With A Very Passive Aggressive Ghost

What’s up, you guys. Serious business here on a Wednesday morning while I’m trying to upload a new episode of Whine With Kelly ft Amanda and Arielle from Not Skinny But Not Fat. It’ll be up later today… if the ghost in my apartment allows it to finally download to my Google Drive. (**edit, it uploaded as soon as I got to my work office. Hmm.)

Yes. I said it. I have a ghost. “Kelly, what? No you don’t. You’ve been outside of your mind for a while now. You just need to stop eating spoonfuls of peanut butter and drinking chocolate milkshakes before you go to bed.” Okay smartasses, I’ve tried that for like a day and it’s not that. The evidence has been staring me in the face for over a year and I’ve just chosen to ignore it. Blissfully unaware. Blaming it on “too much liquor on the rocks” or “not enough sleep” or “stress.” It’s time to lay out the fax. It’s pretty involved so buckle up. I promise I will land the plane eventually.

I moved into this apartment a little over a year ago. It’s a fine apartment, but I hate it mostly because it doesn’t have much natural light. I talk A LOT of shit about it. I’m moving into a new, better place next weekend. Ever since I got here, weird shit happens like phantom door knocks, lights flicker, the TV shuts off unexpectedly, blah blah. “Kelly just pay your Spectrum and Con Ed bills” yea yea I know. I thought that was it too. It’s not. I continued to talk shit.

I went out with a friend about 6 months ago who told me he had a ghost in his apartment. His ghost had been fucking around with his clothes. Stole a pair of shorts from his dresser and they mysteriously showed back up several months later and shit. “Huh” I thought, remembering the new pair of black skinny jeans I bought from Uniqlo that had also disappeared into thin air. “I didn’t even wear those pants yet. Didn’t even put them in my dresser. They’re also missing, but I’m a train wreck so whatever. I’m sure they’re at the bottom of my closet or something,” I justified in between frantic Juul puffs.

As soon as I noticed these pants missing, they showed back up. In a very, very obvious spot that I had looked roughly 4,000 times beforehand. Whatever, I’m forgetful about shit like that, new pants back in the rotation!

Life goes on. More knocks, more lights flickering despite buying all new lightbulbs. Honestly I had gotten used to it. Once I didn’t even open the door for an actual friend dropping by because I figured I was just hearing things. The Bachelor starts back up, my TV starts shutting off during pivotal scenes. “What the literal fuck?” I scream during the call with Spectrum that was being recorded for training and quality purposes. Sure, I had a few outstanding payments during the first call. But what about the second, third and fourth calls I had to make? They had no explanation. “It’ll be back on soon.” Hm. Okay. Tell that to #BachelorNation who is now deprived of my thoughts on the final rose ceremony of Szn 9 Ep 2.

Moving on. I’ve always had a lot of dreams. Some good, but mostly soul crushing nightmares. I’ve chronicled my sleep issues for about 8 years on Twitter so I don’t need to get into all of that. I got back from my #JapanTrip on Saturday morning. I managed to stay up all day and went out to the bar at 7pm to continue to stay awake so I could beat the jetlag everyone told me I was going to get. Around midnight I hit a wall quite literally during a club-wide singalong of Shallow and left with almost no explanation to my friends. Came home, thought out loud “FUCK I hate this place I can’t wait to leave” for no reason in particular. Passed out. Woke up around 5am to the angry sound of my own name – I jolted awake in a FULL sweat. (I recognize this is starting to sound like a made up story. It’s not.) I brushed it off again, I was still drunk from the night before and definitely over tired. Whatever, whatever.

Sunday, my bedside lamp light AND a sconce light on my wall burnt out within minutes of each other. “This FUCKING PLACE” I start thinking again, “I seriously cannot wait to get out of here.” I go to sleep. When I tell you I had the worst nightmare of my life on Sunday night, it doesn’t even begin to describe how horrible it actually was. I “woke up” in the middle of it, full sleep paralysis style (something I don’t ever get) but the nightmare continued to play out INSIDE OF MY APARTMENT. Like I was watching a loved one suffer on the floor of my apartment while other people I knew stood around watching and doing nothing, and I was glued to my bed. After what literally felt like 45 minutes of torture I woke up to my real alarm, mid scream, in an entire puddle of sweat. I know that’s gross but it was that severe. I sat in my bed for like 30 minutes trying to recover from this nightmare and then I got in the shower. I calmed down, started thinking about how busy I’m going to be this week; “gotta order amazon boxes ugh” – my bathroom light starts flickering. Okay. What. The. FUCK. I sigh again thinking “Jesus fucking Christ what is up with my lights.” I get out of the shower. As I grab my towel, my ENTIRE SHOWER ROD falls onto my head. Whole thing smacked me right in the face. Pretty vulnerable time to be smacked over the head at 8 am IMO.

Now. I know those stories are haphazard, very involved and definitely overthought, but the details are important. Based on the above, I’ve deduced the following:

  1. My apartment ghost knows when I’m talking shit about its home
  2. It purposely stops me from doing things I like (watching the bachelor, having light, sleeping, black skinny jeans)
  3. It’s fucking #DONE with me

The final straw? I originally extended my lease to 4/30 because I wasn’t able to move during my trip. My landlord just asked if I could possibly be out by 4/20. Not to brag but I smoke a lot of weed. I had plans on 4/20. Now they’re cancelled… because of my apartment.

My question is this. Will I even survive that long? Will Apartment Ghost read this blog? Does AG have a twitter account? Sure, I hadn’t actually been physically harmed before the shower curtain, just mentally tormented for 389 days. But you know what they say. Monday it’s just a bump on head. Wednesday it’s just some annoying news. Friday – you’re 6 feet under.

Or something like that.

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