How the hell do I do one of these?

It puzzles me; astounds me in a fashion perhaps unhealthy for my own blood to be writing one of these. Would you say I am mad? Perhaps. I mean, what healthy person writes about things that have never even happened, with such clarity, perhaps...devotion.... that I simply cannot convey to you, the simple reader. I would tell you a much happier version of life if I could: I would, mayhaps, tell you about Jake's wonderful children, his loving wife who provides for him in ways most satisfying, his supportive family.


But I can't, because I simply can't imagine something so far from the truth. Jake is fuckin' insane. He's a few sandwiches short of a picnic lunch. He's crazy as hell and nuttier then a bag full of chipmunk's assholes. How can I say this right? You, the humble reader, may wonder how I know this: I have been in the body of this man since I was negative five-hundred and three. You'll understand when you're dead.

He's tired of the city because that means more blood, and more blood means more screaming. See, he thinks everyone is covered in blood. "Wipe off your face, you bastard!" Ol Jake would scream, "You're covered in blood! Get away!" And so he killed the man.

He's in the country now, a runnin from the law. I, the poor old ghost, can only watch.

What the hell else am I supposed to do?