Let me get this straight. You waltzed into Itchy Silk: Thrift Store and Cobbler to peruse forty-dollar cut-off shorts and handmade shoes, but then got distracted by the shiny jackets in the back corner and decided to peruse that instead? Well, what did you find? Hmm? Hmm?

You fool.

When you picked up that black vinyl jacket with an early nineties Great American Cookie Company logo on the back, did you not hesitate? Was it not enough of a sign for you that as you tore it from its rightful resting place, it got caught on the other wire hangers, knocking down the pink neon track jumpsuit and two Member’s Only jackets? The jacket didn’t have a price tag. That’s an omen, ignoramus.

And yet, there you were. In the one, tiny dressing room—smiling at yourself as you realized that there was a name embroidered on the front—Deborah. You took a friggin’ Insta, which you captioned, “Long live Deborah #thriftfinds,” paid the eighty dollars for the jacket, and wore it out of the store.

And you thought that there weren’t going to be consequences? Seriously? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? No, of course you don’t. You probably still don’t understand the connection between the purchase of Deborah’s Great American Cookie Company jacket and the extremely vivid and disorienting dreams you were having every night. Dreams about serving endless slices of cookie cake to eager mall patrons. Dreams where Sam Goody and Gadzooks shone in the distance like beacons of hope, hope that would never be reached.

And for one second, did you consider that maybe the cookie-cake-related dream had something to do with the jacket that literally says “Great American Cookie Company” on the back? There’s a dancing, smiling chocolate chip stitched into the vinyl, you poor fool.

But, okay, let’s give you the benefit of the doubt. Dreams are weird, and fine, dreams about cookie cake are common. But explain what happened at the grocery store. Go ahead. Explain it and tell me there’s not a connection to Deborah’s ghost. You threw a massive fit in the chip aisle, in which you used the phrase, “Am I buggin', where are the 3D Doritos?” And when you snapped out of it, you had to run to the bathroom, where you threw up Hubba Bubba colored bile. If that’s not a sign that you’re being possessed by a vintage jacket, then what is?

And yet, you continued with your life, chalking up these experiences to a newly developed wheat-intolerance. But did it stop? No! It got worse, you moron! You started wearing the jacket everywhere you went. You started sleeping in it, doing Pilates in it, showering in it. Wearing it to the mall. Hanging out at the mall. Looking for an Orange Julius at the mall. Putting “Deborah” on your tax forms. No last name, just “Deborah.”

Fool! Fool! It literally took bleeding from your ears and eyes while muttering, backwards, about a guy named Derek who worked at Waldenbooks for you to hesitate for two friggin’ seconds and consider that maybe your dumb actions had consequences.

And now, here you are, in the godforsaken shadow realm. How is that, by the way? Is the shadow realm all you imagined it would be? Is it a fun way to spend all of eternity? Is it cozy? Making any friends? Didn’t think so. Because, as you well know by now, in the shadow realm, you are doomed to spend the remainder of your days searching for an internet café, thinking about Derek’s frosted tips, gnawing on a Baby Bottle Pop, and occasionally convalescing into a sad, sad orb of ectoplasm.

Wow, you doof. Just… wow.