He never gives up, and I never give in. We’re like a bad rom-com without the romance. He wants me to follow and obey, and I’m all, “NOPE!” Spy life? Hard pass. Not for me.

But let me tell you a story. Buckle up.

For over a decade—yes, ten long years—my every move has been monitored. My house? Bugged. My roads? Tracked. My “toys”? Let’s not even go there. All this because one brilliant intelligence agent burned himself on his own stupidity. And now, apparently, I’m the lifelong fix-it project for his career oopsie.

So, the other day, I walked into a store. Did he know I’d be there? Of course. This guy probably knows what brand of toothpaste I use. His network of organized chaos was already in place, like some overly ambitious villain in a spy movie. I smiled knowingly, because what else can you do when you’re part of a show you didn’t sign up for?

Then came the restaurant. Oh, the strategy! He picked the perfect table—a spot with an empty seat nearby. Why? Because when I walked in, where else would I sit? He’s not just a spy; he’s a seating-chart genius. I mean, bravo, Ghost.

But the kicker wasn’t his table choice. It was the finger—that crooked finger—and the purple cane. I’d seen them before. No amount of spy disguises can hide hands like that. Forget the wigs and accents; the hands are the real giveaway. And just like that, I knew: The Ghost was back.

And he was wearing MY pants. MY. PANTS. Sir, if you’re going to stalk me, at least don’t raid my wardrobe!

When he finally spoke, he went full character mode: a slow-talking, aristocratic old lady with a British accent. Dementia vibes, but make it posh. MI5? I wondered. But no, he claimed he wasn’t born in the UK. Then later, he said he was. Lies. Lies everywhere.

It was like playing two truths and a lie, but all lies.
“I have kids,” he said.
“Wait, no, I don’t.”
“You caught me—I’m British.”
“Actually, scratch that. I’m Latino.”

Bro. One lie, I’ll let slide. Three? Trust gone. Evaporated.

But we talked. And oh, how his voice changed! From slow and soft, to coherent and intellectual, to downright rational. It was like watching someone change costumes mid-scene. Impressive? Sure. Suspicious? Definitely.

And me? Still not a spy. Just an innocent civilian trying to figure out how my pants ended up on a Ghost.

Then, there was the doctor’s bag, the purple cane, and the amulet. What was in that bag? Why did the cane feel like it belonged in a Bond villain’s starter pack? And the amulet—oh, I had guesses. Wild, terrifying guesses.

We talked about Argentina, and his eyes—they were Milei eyes. You know the kind: intense, like they can see into your soul and steal your secrets. While I smiled politely, my brain was spinning 10,000 scenarios. Each one worse than the last.

Then he started clueing me in, testing what was true about my life. Truth? I don’t lie. But him? He lies like it’s an Olympic sport, and he’s going for gold.

Piece by piece, I figured it out. The crooked finger? A dead giveaway. The cookies? Oh, that’s a whole story. The masks? Classic Ghost. And then it hit me: he was looking for The Mother. The Nurse.

The realization sent a shiver down my spine. I wasn’t dealing with your average spy. No, The Ghost was deep in something dirty. Spy work isn’t clean; it’s messy, twisted, and anything but normal.

I looked him in the eyes—those Milei eyes—and gave him some unsolicited advice:
“Go home. Be happy there. Your people, your land, your food, your vibes—they’re calling you. Power doesn’t matter. Freedom, peace, and a little sanity—that’s what counts.”

Who knows? If Milei rises to power, maybe I’ll dust off my U.S. license and move to Argentina. I could dance the tango. But spy life? Still a no from me.

Meet you in Argentina, Ghost. Just… stop hunting me. And seriously, no more breaking into my house.
I saw my pants on you.

And they looked terrible.