Ghosts, Fingerprints, and My Private Detective named Marshall Schmarshall


I saw this picture of Jersey Shore castmate, Snooki, on the celebrity blog PerezHilton.com.  She was in New York yesterday with her boyfriend Gianni. She was photographed coming out of the building in which I work. The first thing I noticed about the picture was  the emblem on Gionni’s shirt…

…which if my memory serves me correctly, is the Egyptian Hieroglyphic that means “An Infant Goat”

The second thing I noticed in the photo was the hair of the woman with her head turned. She must work in my building. I thought. What exquisite hair she had. Who was this woman? Does she know Snooki personally? What are her biggest hopes and fears in life? I became obsessed with her. In a very sick, creepy way. 


I contacted my private detective, Marshall Schmarshall.

In an unrecorded phone conversation, I told him, “Marshall, you must find this woman. She has the key to my voluminous hair.” Unfortunately I forgot that Marshall was in London, England on a “Stolen Vase” case.

Without Schmarshall, I would never be able to find out who this mystery woman was. I sat at my desk and cried.

I looked up.

Why am I crying over someone I don’t even know? I blubbered to myself. “F**K THIS” I screamed.


My floor is curse-free.

Time passed. I sat a my desk stroking my face with my MAC blush brush. It helps me think.

FINGERPRINTS! I thought. That’s how I’ll find the mystery woman. She surely touched the door.

I ran down the stairs. Transforming into a phantasm gives me up to 3x more speed.

Outside of the building, I took prints of the door.

I cross analyzed the markings with every employee in the building.

I got a match on my first try. “That was lucky,” I thought suspiciously.

I knew exactly who she was.

I ran downstairs again. I forgot to mention whenever I transform, I loose half the energy in my body. I become as weak as a woman made of toothpicks.

I entered their floor.

…but tripped.

I dragged myself across the rug via elbows.

I rounded the corner. [DAMNNNNN MY MUSCLE LOOKS GOOD.]

I arrived to her cubicle. I thought of the poor animals from the ASPCA commercials. It gave me strength to kneel.

Everyone stared at me. 

“Lauren left for the day,” the old lady in the glasses told me. She must have been at least 65 years old. Lauren’s desk was empty. I would never get to tell her how lovely her hair was or ask her what her about her greatest hopes and fears.

I had a heart attack.

I now roam the hallways as a full-time phantasm. Visit me some time. We’ll play ghost tag. It’s really fun. Or we can scare people!

**Special thanks to Laura for the stairwell/outside pictures and to Allyssa for taking pictures of me crawling on my elbows.

 

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