Working in such a social setting as I do, I frequently take solace in the inter-office exchange of wild weekend adventures, inappropriate jokes, and relationship drama. In fact, I’ve come to expect it. Need it, even. It’s a much desired break that pulls me away from my desk and allows my glossed over eyes a little less screen time. I’m not quite sure how or why, but last week the topic of conversation drifted away from the usual chit-chat and on to campfire tales, silly superstitions, and horror flick faves. None of these were really of much interest to me ever since I discovered Ouija boards were manufactured by Parker Brothers and actual witches were merely pagan practicioners. A scary tale skeptic? Most Definitely. Until I lived through a horror story of my own.

I was awoken early Saturday morning by a peculiar phone call. Now, I know what you’re thinking – classic When A Stranger Calls babysitter slasher story – but no… even worse. When I picked up the unknown number, I was greeted on the line by an all-too perky Bank Of America representative. She informed me that there have been an unusually copious amounts charges made with my card over the past few days. The rapid purchases and varied site visits was cause for suspicion of fraudulent activity.

A pause. Had my card been lost or stolen? Had someone swiped the number? Or was a part of a much larger scam?

As she continued on with her inquiry, she eventually asked for account verification and I, although still half asleep and hardly audible, was able to effortlessly recite debit card digits including the CVC code. And it was then, that I instantly knew where this now awkward call was going. I embarrassingly confirmed all the transactions as she very politely read down the list. My life had hit a new all-time low on the shopaholic scale of splurges. I was not a victim of credit card fraud. I was a victim of my own uncontrollable habit.

A fancy Frenchman once commented on overcoming addition, “The dead drug leaves a ghost behind. At certain hours it haunts the house.” A smart cookie, he was.

Apparently, my Lolita-Girl wearing ghost haunts me during the sleepless hours of the night. It is then, that the only sign of  life in sight is the glow of my blood-red laptop and my fast-moving fingers, as my ghost compels me to click, click, click my sanity away and stuff it in a virtual shopping cart.

True story.