Purple Dead Babes

by SaraG

You’ve come to the right place for advice, Little Sister.

The whole problem with dating humans is that you can’t let them figure out that you are a ghost.

Okay, that’s not quite the worst thing that can happen. You can always talk yourself out of ghosthood or appeal to some basic myths. Convince them that you’re the soul of a Christian martyr, thrown to the lions in the arena or something. Guys dig virgins. Or at least they dig soon-to-be ex-virgins.

The real problem arises when they discover that you’re a Cassiopeian ghost. Alien ghost doesn’t fit as snuggly in the public’s psyche. The whole purple dead babe thing–not good. I have never let them catch me purple-handed, so I can’t really tell you how to get out of that one. Seriously, how hard can it be to stay nice and pink or brown for a whole evening? If you’ve screwed up that bad, you don’t deserve to belong to the Cassiopeian Dead Women Seducers of Humans Sorority.

Oh, is that a guy listening?

Dude, this is so not about you. Or even better. Believe what you want. Something nice and comforting which will reaffirm you in your masculinity. Yes, just like what you’re thinking now. That’s right, baby. That girl who left you in High School? Wasn’t because you suck, but because she was a dead Cassiopeian and she wanted to go home. Or because her time was up and she was rotting. Whatever.

Now, when I count to three, you’re going to wake up and you’re not going to remember this conversation. Except that you’re going to feel a lot better about that girl that left you in High School. See, I’m not such a bad person; an encounter with a Cassiopeian should always give the subject something good to take back home.

One… Two… Three…

Hello, handsome.

What was your name again?