Confessions of an Amateur Zombie

Day One
Shuffled around the house a bit today. I’ve never been much of an athlete, so the whole “no running” thing kind of works to my benefit. The next time someone calls me lazy, I have a legitimate excuse. I could tell them that speed is against my newfound way of life. Or I could just eat their face off. I’m still working on the challenge of the doorknob – I’ve been trapped in my own room all day.

Day Two
After fourteen hours of clawing uselessly at the door, I’ve finally managed to escape. No, no, I didn’t open it. Some nice fellow from down the street let me out while looking for survivors. He was, naturally, too fast for me to catch. But I did find a slow-moving squirrel in the backyard. Don’t let anyone tell you that rodents taste like chicken, ‘cos they don’t. They taste like rodents.

Day Four
I met up with some old friends down at the bar. They were just hanging out. It was cool, laid back, whatever. We shared a plentiful serving of Elderly Bartender, paired beautifully with a Junkie Teen appetizer and a nice bottle of Beaujolais. After our meal, we sat around and watched snowy static on t.v. Hundreds of channels and still nothing to watch.

Day Six
Saw Cindy Mitchell today. Yes, the Cindy Mitchell. The same Cindy Mitchell who I danced with that one time in high school kinda by accident. Her boyfriend, Tommy Swanson, had broken up with her a week before the junior prom and started dating Sarah Richardson, which was totally messed up because Sarah and Cindy were, like, BFF’s. So Cindy ended up going to the dance with Brett Saunders, who was a wicked tool. Anyway, Brett got wrecked off Raspberry Smirnoff before the prom and spent the whole night puking in the bathroom. So I, while getting a Shirley Temple, struck up a conversation with the puffy eyed Cindy Mitchell and told her she was too good and pretty and sweet for Tommy and Brett and asked if she wanted to dance. She accepted, and we danced for about half a song before Tommy came up and pleaded for Cindy to get back together with him. She did, and I was left in the middle of the dance floor, alone. I mean, it’s cool. I don’t think about it often, or anything.

Day Seven
I saw Cindy Mitchell again today and took a bite out of her left forearm. Maybe I’ll give her a call in a few days, see if she wants to do something sometime.

Day Nine
Damn it – Zombie Cindy Mitchell is dating Zombie Tommy Swanson.

Day Twelve
While trying to “outrun” a shotgun-toting Redneck militia, I seem to have injured my ankle. I think it might be broken. I should see if Dr. Harrison has an opening tomorrow so he can – oh wait. That’s not going to work. What am I thinking? I’m supposed to meet up with Murph and wander around the mall parking lot tomorrow. Eh, I’ll try to call Wednesday.

Day Sixteen
There is an increased military presence downtown and it’s really starting to bum everyone out. Walter’s friend Vinny said that scientists are doing tests on zombies, trying to find a cure for the “diseased.” That kind of brought the room down – so we decided to head into the city and see what all the fuss was about.

Day Seventeen
Walter, Vinny and I have been captured.

Day Eighteen
Walter and I have escaped the military base with the help of five hundred of our closest zombie friends. Vinny didn’t make it – he tried to eat one of the colonels and was shot in the head. We spent the remainder of the day messing with some school children trapped in an aquarium, and Walter tried to fight a shark. He, surprisingly, won.

Day Twenty-Three
My arm is pinned beneath an overturned Jetta, so the past few days have been spent reflecting inward. I don’t understand why all those horror movies make us out to be so one-dimensional. Sure, we like to eat, and we prefer to eat living human flesh. But that’s not all we are We’ve got character. I saw one zombie trying to fix his deck the other day. His deck! They don’t show that in the Romero flicks. It’s all, shuffle-shuffle, eat-eat in those movies. Well I finished writing my exhaustive, three-volume biography of Jamie Kennedy last week. So take that, mainstream media.

Day Twenty-Five
Free and one-armed, I feel re-energized. I had to gnaw off my pinned appendage to avoid a pack of hungry wolves, but I feel I’ve lost some dead weight, ha ha. The old ankle is feeling better and my shuffle has grown into to a brisk limp. Losing an arm is probably the best thing that’s happened to me since becoming undead. Though, it does make styling my hair more difficult. Well...that and the layer of gore from my victims that coats my entire body. I wish I still had a swimming pool.

Day Thirty-Four
My sister’s friend Karen welcomed an eight pound, seven ounce baby zombie boy yesterday. We’re having a little get together for her and her husband Rick. Balloons, cake, booze – the whole nine. It’s sweet, you know? Two people-turned-zombies bringing a new undead life into the world, it makes you think about things. It seems everything is finally coming together for me. And, best part, I met a girl recently. Her name is Emily and she is going to school to become an x-ray technician. I think she could be the one.

Day Forty-Two
Life has, pretty much, returned to normal. I mean, the world is dominated by the zombie race, but other than that it’s pretty much business as usual. We’ve gone back to our daily routines – jobs, hobbies. We’re having elections in a few months, which should be pretty exciting, and we’ve just opened a new Sonic off of Exit 12 on 95. The living still run around, from time to time, with their “resistance movement” or whatever, but they’re not a big deal. The television stations are running again, finally, and do you know what we learned? Apparently, the zombies in Europe are maniacs They can run and jump and do all sorts of crazy, non-traditional stuff. They’re real pioneers over there, doing some pretty progressive things. Must be all the techno music and the really good beer they have.

Comfort

I came to this conclusion during a conversation with a sullen friend:

"The smart ones among us know we're all fucked, so welcome to the club."

Baby defend me.

Baby, defend me.

Dress me with that navy blue baby tie you tie with your baby fingers and go fight my case for me. Be clever and quiet and bright. Remember that lawyer procedural drama you used to watch on the television? Be that, but be that baby. We'll walk into the courthouse - you strapped in my baby front pack, miniature briefcase in your baby lap. You can even drag out your baby soapbox that you've kept hidden beneath the jury pool!

Baby, surprise me.

Blow through whistles in your sleep or jump out of the laundry like a tiny beast. Buy me a bag of chewy sour candy and make my mouth hurt. But it's a good hurt. Just a baby hurt. Tell me Sarah Michelle Gellar is relevant again and make her a god damn superstar. Shock me with the news that diet cola is healthy and that the size of my package is above average. Or just tell me you love me like the whole world.

Baby, destroy me.

Fill up my empty bookshelves with fireworks and light a match near a crowded trashcan. Pray for a breeze slight. Start an arson run that spans four counties. Take my wallet like a baby pickpocket, so innocent. So cunning. Use the cash inside to buy a plane ticket for me, beckoned to where you are. Like it was the plan all along to look for me. Call to say: Whoa, baby. Go whoa yourself, Joey Lawrence. Whoa yourself all the way to the bank.

A Weekend's To-Do List

Sell some clothes.
Start a fire.
Build a birdhouse where the swimming pool used to be.

Ask Monster to describe my "killing eyes."
Cut back the crab grass so I can see the street.
Hate, then later understand, young adult fiction.

Deliver a few choice curse words.
(Think: Peter Serafinowicz.)
Smile/fang-like. Shake/those manos.

Splash them with Seagram's as holy water.

On wanting to adapt

"A charge," she said. "A mission."

This is what she gave to me, topless, when the world
outside was all thunderstorm and rain and fury.
It's not that easy, I said, unconvinced. It's more than that. It's environment. Biology.

"Laziness," she offered. More statement than question.

I wanted to hate her in that moment.
Hate her bluntness and her perception.
But I could not. She was at the heart of the matter.
I could end this world or destroy it, rebuild to suit my needs.
I asked her how to throw the first brick. Which window to smash first.

"Act."

But how was I to act? I am a beast. With fists and teeth, thumping and gnashing.

And she looked at me hard and smiled.

"Speak, bear. Speak."