Holy Zombie Jesus. I am incredibly sorry for not updating or anything, but the simple fact of the matter is, I was writing. In fact, I managed to get a goodly portion of the novel done, and I'm definitely on track to actually meet the deadline. Go me! Of course, there have been a few goings-on that I would be remiss to leave unmentioned. Firstly: I am no longer dead. Well, actually, I guess I should tell you about how I was dead before, you know, actually saying I am no longer. Remember the guy who was giving me a ride in to work? Yeah. Rat bastard killed me. Not sure how, but I know it was him.
Well, I mean, I can't honestly say that. I died a good two days after we parted company. So, I suppose it's just my paranoia taking over about that. Anyway, I bet you want to know how I died. Sorry, I wish I could tell you. But, the simple fact of the matter is, I have no idea. And it drives me all sorts of crazy. I mean, what kind of death would it be wherein I wouldn't remember it? Only two options come to mind, and I don't like either of them. First option would be me dying peacefully in my sleep. Gah. I wouldn't want to go out like that; I'd prefer a more active demise. Second option would be if something caught me unawares, and killed me instantly. I don't like that option too much either, seein' as how I'd prefer meeting the Man with the Scythe face-to-face.
And it's funny I should mention that, since I did meet a person on the street who was carrying a scythe, but it was a little girl. Sure, she had a mischieveous glint in her glowing red eyes as she shoved her way through the crowded suidewalk, jostling my elbow as she passed, but I can't say that it was Death. No, she seemed more like an impish little girl out for a romp with a dangerous harvesting tool. Although... nah, there's no way she was Death's little daughter. I'm being paranoid again.
Anyway, lemme get back to my story. Not the one I'm writing, I mean, but the one I was telling you all, about how I was dead. Like I said, the guy dropped me off at work, and I prepared myself for what I expected to be my last day on the job. A job that I loved, and was terrified of losing. I mean, c'mon, I got paid to read other people's books, for crying out loud! That's the sort of job anyone who appreciates the art of the Written Word dreams about. A thousand dollars a week, just to read stories. A dream job if there ever was one. In short, I was quite understandably worried about losing it. So, I did what any self-respecting employee would do.
I pretended I had never suddenly disappeared for a week.
I walked as nonchalantly as I was able into the main lobby at approximately 0830, joined in with a small group of other proffesionals who were headed to the elevators, and successfully evaded Norma the Receptionist's keen eyes. She's incredibly good at spotting people who are late for work, let me tell you. Anyway, after getting in the elevator, I got some curious looks from the other passengers. I asked one of them (whose name currently eludes me... Bob? Ted? Johnny 'The Rainmaker' Gambino?) what everybody was staring at, but all I got from him was something along the lines of me being in big trouble. Like I wasn't able to figure that one out for myself. Man, sometimes the people I work with can be dense.