It was a dark, eerie, spooky night, and the old, scrawny usher that I mistook for a life-size raisin was sweeping the halls, headphones over his ears blaring Frank Sinatra. It really peeves me that the people of this day and age are so wrapped up in there technical whatsamohoozits that they can no longer appreciate a performance put on solely for their benefit. I'm not certain he even felt the slight chill pervading the room, being wrapped up in that hideous brown-and-blue plaid turtleneck. HE WAS OUT OF UNIFORM!

I was on my third round of stomping up and down the stairs (where, once upon a time, I fell to my death after I was most rudely shoved by a theatre guest on her way to the can) and I was starting to become rather annoyed. It takes a lot of energy for me to put on such a performance, yet not a one seems to care.

I suppose I could always have pulled the "evil-mist" trick, but I had already used that bit for that night and I was loathe to become a one-trick pony, as I believe the modern-day terminology would be. I was so frustrated—yet they can't ride me, so why pull my hair?

So, completely devoid of a satisfactory reaction, I let myself fade back through the wall and into the office area, sucking the warmth out of the room as I went, using the energy it gave me to summon a light wind and blow all their carefully arranged files and papers off the desks and into mishmash on the floor. Hah! Now that deaf, fashion-impaired usher would notice me!

What can I say? Being the ghost host of the Tivoli, naturally I crave the spotlight now and again. What can one expect from a ghost that has resided in a theatre for more than seventy-five years? Neither a quiet, demure little ghostie begging for help nor a top-hatted, tap-shoe-wearing specter performing at the beck and call of fleshed admirers, let me say.

Now, call me a diva, but I perform when, where, and how I choose—I call it a trade-off for not being able to eat, sleep, and pee as my physical counterparts could. And right about then, I was feeling very underappreciated. I held my breath as the doorknob twisted, first exposing a pasty arm that looked like a roadmap of greater Pittsburg, then a balding, wrinkled face that even his own mother would beat in.

Duh-duh-duh-dah!

He blinked, once, twice, grabbed a set of forgotten keys off a desk, then turned and closed the door.

I stood calmly for (about) 14.237 seconds, before I angrily stomped out of the room and towards the concession stand, making banging noises against all the walls. Blinded by pissed-offed-ness, I yanked open the door to the popcorn machine and threw all the nasty, stale kernels from last week around the room, like stinky, high-calorie snow.

Next came a downpour of Twizzlers, Skittles, Funions, and Cheezie Poofs.

Then I blasted open all the doors and called forth my army of pigeons.

Let's see that blind, deaf, soon-to-be next contestant on TLC's What Not to Wear ignore this!