My lifestyle has its pros and cons, but I think the good generally outweighs the bad. I’m not very active, which is likely to take a toll on my mind and body as I get older, leaving someone likely to find my bloated corpse sprawled out on my apartment floor after I’m late with my rent one month. But for various reasons, ghosts aren’t my fucking problem, and that makes me feel pretty good.

For one, ghosts never screw with people who spend their free time like I do. Not once have I seen someone scared out of their mind when they’re looking at porn, listening to Weird Al, or doing their laundry in the kitchen sink. And I’ll be damned if that happens to me on a Sunday, when I’m inevitably doing all of these things simultaneously.

Secondly, I live in an apartment. Nobody important has ever died in an apartment, and only important people come back as ghosts. Ghosts are folks who passed away with unfinished business, not unfinished cheesecake they stole from work that’s been in the fridge so long it’s turned black. People who die in apartments stay dead, and for good reason.

Scratch that part about feeling good.