The key to survival is cats. Nobody listened to me back in the good old days when all I had to worry about was paying the Internet bill and still having enough left over to eat. Fucking Time Warner Cable. Let’s see you collect that $237.48 I still owe you now.
I may be a Texan, but even at what appears to be the end of the world, I still think it’s a bad idea for everyone to run around with a gun. Before (and I assume anyone reading this will understand that when I say “Before” I mean before the Zombie Apocalypse) I used to tell everyone my weapon of choice would be a cat and that I could reload five times. When they’d give me a blank look, I’d explain that no way would anyone breaking into my home be able to get to me with a pissed off, terrified cat attached to his face.
In the Before, the big debate had been gun control. Right before Twitter went dead, I saw a tweet that Wayne LaPierre, head of the NRA and shill for the arms manufacturers got overrun by a mob of zombies and had his face eaten. #LaPierreduJour. No idea whether that’s true or not, but there’s a certain amount of poetic justice in him going down firing an automatic weapon to no avail. Should have had a cat, Wayne. I’m still here and you’re not…at least according to Twitter — that highly reliable news source.
I do carry a gun though. Not for the zombies. It’s for the remaining human assholes. Jesus Placebo Christ! You’d think with a worldwide pandemic that created the undead, most of the dickheads would have finally got theirs. I knew that phrase – what goes around comes around – was utter bullshit. I knew it!
My cats Wally Wanker and Punk have stuck by me. Probably because I remembered to bring a can opener not powered by electricity when we left the shitty apartment where we lived. Turns out I’m an excellent scrounger.
Not that I prepared for the end of the world despite the fact that in the Before I managed a bookstore. Survivalist books flew off the shelves long before the appearance of the first zombie. I’ve never been interested in surviving a Force 5 tornado, a tsunami, a nuclear war, an alien invasion, or the actual separation of Church and State. (Can you imagine how violent the evangelical Christians would become if they couldn’t meddle in politics and/or total strangers’ vaginas?) Regular life was hard enough working retail. I’d come home from work and usually collapse, too exhausted to blog. Oh, yeah. I’m a writer. For all I know I’m the last writer on the planet. So if there happened to be ten readers left and five of them read this journal, would I finally be successful?
I think stupid shit like that all the time. What else is there to do? Except forage for food and avoid getting killed by zombies and murderous rapists?
At times I’ve hooked up with other survivors, but it never seems to work out. I guess I’m too much of a loner. That fatass Dwayne, really got on my nerves. For the record, the Zombie Apocalypse has turned out to be the ultimate diet – the one that actually works. I’ve finally lost those few extra pounds…57 to be exact. At least I assume I’ve lost them. It’s not like I’m going to cart around a bathroom scale. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Dwayne. The night he suggested we eat my cats was the night we parted company. That vanilla starfish is lucky I didn’t part his comb-over with my trusty machete. I haven’t reached the point of committing murder…yet.
Being thin again is great, but I miss ice cream. It sucks that while there are thousands of houses to break into and probably 75% of the former inhabitants had Ben & Jerry’s in their freezers, there’s no power. It’s all just glop.
Thank goodness there are still plenty of cigarettes and coffee. And lighters. Fuck starting a fire by rubbing two sticks together or some other Survivor shit like that. I wonder if any of the winners of that show made it this long. Kinda doubt it. Unless they all got together with Jeff Probst on some fucking steaming hot island for the Ultimate Survivor Season – Favorites vs. the Undead. Yeah, I’d watch that…especially when the food challenges came along. I wouldn’t put it past some of those jerks like Boston Rob or Coach to eat Jeff – even if they hadn’t been turned. Those guys take that game way too seriously. Took. Took that game way too seriously.
Sometimes I forget there will probably be no more reality tv…ever. On the plus side, no more Honey Boo Boo, or whatever the fuck her idiot mother named her. Not that I ever saw a single episode of that girls-in-need-of-lifelong-therapy pageant shit. I can’t stand little kids, but I also can’t stand child abuse and that’s what those pageants are…were.
Now I’ve gone and depressed myself. As if I weren’t depressed enough. I don’t know why I thought this journal would be cathartic. Writing used to matter to me. Whenever I made someone laugh, I was happy. This journal is stream-of-consciousness crap that nobody will ever read and here in the After, happiness has transformed from an emotion to a meaningless word.
Tomorrow we’ll finally reach the Atlantic Ocean. I always wanted to be a beach bum. I bet it will freak the fuck out of Punk and Wally Wanker, but that can’t be helped. I’m hoping they can figure out how to catch their own fish…just in case.
Zombie Wedding Photo by Hans Bauer