In deep thought, yours truly had an epiphany. If, God forbid, we indeed would have a zombie apocalypse in the future, distant or near, yours truly would not be the crusading hero, (in ascending volume) blowing zombie heads off, scouring and eventually finding the remaining survivors of the human race ready to make one last stand for the sake of the future of the human race and of the world. Whew! Like, yeah right, like that is soooo gonna happen.
The epiphany I had was the complete opposite. I realized I will not be able to survive the zombie apocalypse. In fact, knowing me, I would be the first to be converted to a zombie. Now how did I reach that conclusion? Here, let me show you a picture:
That is me, about three weeks ago, in Pennsylvania. That is me, posing, like the poser that I am, pretending that I know how to ski. I sucked at it. I even took group classes for beginners so that I could at least get to learn how to do basic skiing. And yes, I sucked so bad at it, the instructor eventually gave up on me. (For the record, though, the instructor wasn't even remotely good. He just showed us once and expected us to do it right the first time and moved on to the next task). Anyhow, my balance was bad and I spent all the precious little energy that my poor deconditioned body can muster getting up from the snow cause I fell...again...and again. What broke my heart though, was not merely that I was falling every time, unable to maintain even just a little bit of stability, and ski peacefully in the soft almost flat out horizontal beginner's slope. It was the fact that each time I struggle to get up, there are a couple three or four year old kids running circles around me in the skis or snowboards, making it look so easy for them but not for me. You have to fight the urge to whisper: Your parents don't love you, you are adopted just so they feel as bad as you do. It shakes your belief that all men were truly created equal. And yes, there goes your dignity. So there I was, defeated and cold, waiting for my friends to finish up so we can go home.
During the summer, we went to my roommate's friends lake house in North Carolina. The owners of the lake house are the the most humble secret millionaires I have known (errr well I don't really know a whole lot to begin with). Anyhow, they own a speed boat, a couple jet-skies, a couple kayaks for water sports. Of course, the amazing muah decided to try wakeboarding for a change. My roommate went first and did it seemingly without any difficulty. I tried it next and viola! Before I knew it I was struggling with life and death, gurgling lake water and using up whatever questionable amount of energy I had splashing around to get back into the boat. That, despite having a life vest on me. In fact, I was so weak, the boat had to circle down several times so they can get me from the water. Ah, the shame.
My weak body and my weak spirit, ultimately, will be my undoing. I can never be a soldier or a warrior. I can barely do ten decent push ups, can barely run a mile without stopping to breathe and walk. And I am not even fat fat. I can't tie ropes very well, can't fix a car, know nothing about electronics, know nothing about computers except the addresses of free porn sites. I can never survive on my own, in the wild. I can never be a warrior, a fighter, a soldier. Hell, I don't think I can defend myself if my life defended on it.
What I do think though is I would have made a good propagandist in wartime. I would be one of those instigators, rallying the crowd to the cause and slipping back into the shadows as chaos ensues. I have always known how to inspire and to provoke. I would never, ever want to be in the frontline. I revel in shrewd, calculated cowardice. For me that is an art form. I learned in psychiatry class that I am passive-aggressive and I will probably play that part come the zombie apocalypse.
I won't be able to run far, so chances are 1.) I would be eaten first or 2.) I will hide. I would probably be the last to pack up provisions and when people would start the exodus to go away and hide, my dissenting opinion would be to hide where I am, praying desperately that the zombies don't get me. Hide in the shadows and wait for the opportune time to escape or the perfect time to be eaten and converted.
If I turn zombie, I would probably be a picky eater. Like I won't eat the hairy ones, the fat ones and definitely not the ugly ones, especially the fugly ones. And I would probably prefer to eat a vital organ, heart, liver or brain. Intestines would be out of the menu, same for hair and sex organs, ewww. Oh and if I turn zombie, I probably won't do the zombie walk: slow, lumbering eternal steps. Lazy as I would ever be, I would be one to drag my leg on the floor, or hide in fresh loam and stick my hand up like this:
That is probably how I would get my prey assuming anyone even dares to come near it. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter if I survive the zombie apocalypse or not. I found a wonderful meme to summarize everything I have bitterly typed here today:
Have a great zombielific day ahead!
