Confessions of a Twenty-Something Drama Queen

There is a disturbance in the force, somewhere over in Hollywood. Evil lives there. It throbs with rage, waiting to unleash its fury on the next unsuspecting passerby. It's not at the Hamburger Hamlet, like you think it is. Nope, not at American Apparel OR the Crunch Fitness. Not the Starbucks, either.

It's in the Mighty G's new apartment building.

Perhaps the building was built on an ancient burial ground, or it was cursed by a wayward gyspy. But it harbors dark forces within. G just got there, and it has tried to get her three different times. Each time, she thought she was safe but neigh, she was walking right into the Lion's Den. It was a harsh reminder that that Hollywood is filled with things we cannot fathom or protect ourselves from. Like lions.

You're wondering if the evil is contained within a rune, or a small doll? Nope. An old Grandfather clock? Uh uh. A mysterious feline that she found sitting on her chest at night trying to steal her breath? Nope, that was just an accident because the neighbor, in a mescaline-induced haze, teleported the cat with his matter-moving machine.

Luckily, the G's bathroom sink is NOT the culprit either, like mine was when I lived in Austin. Its flying porcelain chunks sent my roommate to the Rite Aid once for butterfly bandages! And on the same night we were going to see Semisonic! Zounds!

The Mighty G is up against terror in its purest form. By signing that lease, she agreed to go head-to-head with a filthy, paint-covered, crotchety Ladder Of Death. It stands as high as a grave is deep, and that's where it aims to send her. THE GRAVE!

Seriously, the thing is out to kill us all. It falls when it should be standing, trips you when you're walking near it, and dirties the area around it. I thought, when I sauntered casually into the apartment today, that it would be gone. Silly was I, four hours younger than I am now and much less wise. IT WAS HIDING IN THE CLOSET.

I picked up the G's framed posters, which needed to be hidden away from the numerous milk crates, boxes, bags, and other scratch-causing things. I opened the closet door thinking, "They'll be safe in here."

I opened the door, and as it creaked a small voice crept into my head. "The ladder is waiting for you." I stopped in my tracks. "It couldn't be. We're done painting the kitchen. There's no reason for it to be here anymore. Quit being such a pussy." I replaced my hand on the cold steel knob and turned. Creeaaaak.

My eyes widened as they took in the sight of the ladder getting ready to throw itself onto my face in a hurty way. I dropped the posters, threw my hands in front of my face, and screamed like a banshee.

**What happened next can only be described from the point of view of the moving man, an ex-professional Brazilian soccer player Martin.**

Hearing the screams of a hot white girl wearing a tank top and a "Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle" baseball cap, Martin knew he had no time to waste. He increased his pace to a trot, shifted the box of underpants and DVDs to enable maximum girl-saving abilities, and ran through the doorway. He stopped dead in his tracks.

What he saw was not me getting accosted by a homicidal home-improvement tool. He saw a six-foot tall girl in culottes and green plastic shoes holding her hands in front of her eyes and screaming her head off. That's it. No ladder. It was still in the closet, in its original place. No danger or threat was present. Martin threw down the box in disgust. I stopped screaming. Things were awkward for a minute. I cleared my throat and managed to squeeze out a meek "So...you like...stuff?" and then I sped out of the room, ashamed.

The ladder won again. It made Martin think I was off my rocker. It was all ready to fall on me, and only righted itself when it realized someone was coming.

I wish I could say that the G moved the ladder out of the apartment, but she didn't. It is still in that closet, waiting. And the next time we face it, we'll be ready.

I hope she tipped those movers well.

from the legs. g