The Bride who was late

I was born late. I mean I stuck around mother’s womb a week or two, just to float listlessly in that rapidly constricting sack of amniotic fluid and critically analyze my life choices.

Which pretty much set my life’s precedent for the next thirty-five years. I don’t remember a single day at school when I wasn’t late. And I can’t forget my graduation day where my shame faced dad had to go up there on the stage and collect my certificate. I mean it wasn’t really my fault; I had to stop the traffic outside my college to let a family to turtles cross the road.

Or the fateful day I almost got married. I turned up after the guests had left and found my fiancé, Dan, busy doggy styling the wedding planner. Well, all I have to say is that when celebrating your Bachelorette the night before your wedding, never start a bar brawl with another woman who had come for her own Bachelorette. It is like a gang war between two families of hyenas; too much screaming, manic laughter and too little punches.

My only consolation was that I had messed up her nose as bad as she’d messed up my marriage.

But that’s not what this story is about. Definitely not about my life choices when I was alive. This is a story about what happened when I died, and died late at that.

You see I had just turned thirty-five when I walked in late to the altar of our summer wedding, and found out that all the prospects of a happy marriage had upped and left, but not before sampling the hors d’oeuvres.

The last ten years flashed before my eyes as I stood staring at the empty church. Every single bad date I had ever had, belched at me, and all those credit card receipts for premium membership of dating services, danced naked before my eyes.

The thought of having to go back to the Tinders and Ashley Madisons of the world; and having to sign up again, made me groan so hard that my heart stopped several beats. The next thing I remember was standing in room #13 of Chicago general hospital, and watching a hot doctor with an ass straight out of heaven, resuscitating me.

10206430624_c60a99397a_b

Of course me being me, the reality that I was dead, took a while. When I say a while, I mean a month. First I hung out in the room trying to talk to anyone and everyone I saw and telling them I was not dead. Just my luck, that none of them saw me. Next I tried lying on top of my motionless body in hopes that I’ll sink in and join myself. I don’t know how many of you have tried lying on top of yourself, it is unnatural; feels like you’re fucking your own corpse. Which I wasn’t. I’m a straight up vanilla girl, no necrophilia in me.

Then at my funeral, I danced naked on my coffin in front of over a hundred people, incanting sermons from the only Wicca ritual I’d ever read about. Although now that I do recall it was a ritual designed to make a woman fertile. But I am sure in my desperation I would’ve surmised that I would rather be alive even if it meant being pregnant.

When that did not conjoin me with my slightly decomposing body. I decided to continue living naked; it wasn’t like anyone could see me. The next thing I decided was to fuck that body (my body) and go in search for better ones.

After trying my rapidly declining luck with more than five fresh corpses, I got proactive.

I decided that I will have something tiny to do with the suicide of the wedding planner that my ex fiancé had been boinking since I was late for the wedding.

Few days later when she lay dead in room #13 of Chicago general, again being resuscitated by the doctor with a heavenly ass, I lay on top of her hoping I would sink into her body and take over. But such was not my luck, her skinny bones jutted into my ectoplasmic existence and her ample breasts buried inside my almost non existent chest. I heaved and humped on her, only to have her bulbous nose land in my mouth. Now if I weren’t invisible to the living, I would’ve made an amazing spectacle.

A translucent apparition fucking a dead blonde.

I rolled off her and kicked the wall in frustration. It was time I started coming to terms with the fact that maybe, just maybe, I was dead.

And the minute that thought emerged through the transparent barriers of my ectoplasmic mind, I was transported to the gates of the most beautiful estate in this world.

The road to the massive gold gates was laid in clouds. I floated instead of walking and reached the luminescent gate. A booming woman’s voice, like Oprah, echoed, “Ms. Laura Periwinkle, the born late?”

I wondered how the booming voice knew that, yet I played along. I really needed to get inside the gates of that estate. My shoulders were sinking with burdens of my life’s disappointments.

“Yes… Ma’am.” I said. Proud that I had a title ‘The born late’!

“You’re late, again.” She said.

“What?” I asked.

“You died a month ago, we usually give the souls around a weeks time to process the information. You are late by three weeks.” She said, her voice as neutral as if people walking in late, happened all the time.

“I’m sorry.” I said. “This is the first time I died?”

“Girl, do you think I’m your stupid fiancé Dan, who decided to let go of a fine bride like you and fuck that fat nosed excuse?” She said.

“No.” I replied. Feeling a little a better because Oprah thought I made a fine bride.

“Then don’t waste my time. Your next death is scheduled when you turn 85. Come back to me then and we’ll see if you make it on time.” She said.

“What do I do until then?” I asked, clearly confused.

“What you’ve been doing until now, humping dead bodies and checking out hot asses.” She said and laughed hysterically.

I turned around to have the equally disappointed cloud carry me back to the hospital and sat right on the wedding planner’s bulbous nose to analyze my life’s choices.

“Excuse me! Why are sitting on the face of a dead body?” An angry male voice broke the deeply intuitive thoughts that ran inside my mind.

I turned around to see the doctor with the hot ass, staring at me.

At me!!! Not through me.

The nurse, who walked in along with him, looked at the doctor strangely and asked, “Are you alright, Doc? Who are you talking to?”

He pointed at me and said, “Can’t you see that naked woman?”

“Nooooo” She said and hurried out of the room.

I smiled and got my naked ass off the offensive body; being late wasn’t so bad afterall.

Advertisements

Share your feedback

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s