I Am Dead (And Not in the Metaphorical Sense)

Good news, everyone. I am a metaphorical phoenix, rising from the ashes to be reborn! By which I mean I rose from the ashes of that fat, tubby brute Jesse (who also got his brain eaten, as he deserved!), to be reborn, once again, as the sexy, sensitive Peter Petrelli, who can feel the pain of the smallest ant being stomped on by the symbolic boot that stomps out our lives.

But I also have bad news. You see, I am dead. My long, and hard suffering in this awful world, has finally been put at ease, as I can finally rest, like a long hemmrhoided person who is finally cured and can sit down for once without the use of Preparation H.

And I have worse news. You see, I am not dead. Well, not now, you see, but in the future I am, you see. You see, Future Peter is dead. You see?



You see.

And I have more bad news. Not quite as bad as Future Peter being dead instead of me, but still pretty bad. You see, Future Peter came back from the grave, and is haunting me! Not only that, but he is...happy! It is truly frightening. You see?



I think Future Peter is ghost-humping me. Disgraceful.

"Celebrate good times, come on!" the ghost of Future Peter sang to me.

"Excuse me, ghost of Future Peter. But should you not be drowning in the pain and sorrow that the world throws at us?"

"Nah, Pete, that's all a part of life! We all live with it, and it's hard, but we get over it...when we're dead! And I'm dead now! Woohoo! Oh yeah, it's sooo good!"

"I think you're about as deep as the water of a toilet clogged with the sewage of emptiness," I responded to him.

"You don't know what you're missin', Pete," he said, ignoring me, "Simone is up here..."

"Simone," I said, tears running from my eyes, "I miss her as much as a prostitute misses being free of sexually transmitted diseases and unwanted pregancies."

"Hey! And you know Teegan, our ex who left us because we were too sad and depressing? Well, good news! She got hit by a bus, and is with me now! And she's like, totally into me now because of how happy and upbeat I am about being dead!" the ghost of Future Peter said.

"All this is very intriguing," I said with impatience, "but I'm looking for conversation a bit more substantive. What is the meaning of life?"

The ghost of Future Peter looked at me very seriously for a moment before responding. Finally, he opened his mouth, "The meaning of life...is to die so you can enter the afterlife, where ghost sex and monkey-angels are plentiful."



I sat there with my mouth opened, unfulfilled. Is this, the death that I yearned for, all that awaited me? Monkey-angels and constant sex? How...pedantic. I wanted to recite poetry naked, with bunny rabbits and deer dancing around me in beat to my wonderous iambic pentamenter.

It seems I am to be forever unsatisfied. I guess I'll just have to train some rabbits and deer and get naked and recite poetry in this life.

Poetry. Exposed ding-a-lings. Fear of monkey-angels. Such is Peter.