tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89717279666029664842011-04-21T23:51:33.424+01:00Confessions of the world's only living zombieJohnnoreply@blogger.comBlogger121100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971727966602966484.post-70663927222162012912007-04-09T15:58:00.004+01:002007-04-09T15:59:00.205+01:00

Hey! Give me a little time to write it down, why don't you? I guess the minutiae of trying to survive long enough to write about it is a bit beyond the imagination of some people.

Johnnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971727966602966484.post-15117486308418947962007-04-09T15:58:00.003+01:002007-04-09T15:58:37.986+01:00

Hey! Give me a little time to write it down, why don't you? I guess the minutiae of trying to survive long enough to write about it is a bit beyond the imagination of some people.

Johnnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971727966602966484.post-91848621172104130102007-04-09T15:58:00.001+01:002007-04-09T15:58:23.345+01:00

Hey! Give me a little time to write it down, why don't you? I guess the minutiae of trying to survive long enough to write about it is a bit beyond the imagination of some people.

Johnnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971727966602966484.post-69381439531384401692007-04-09T15:57:00.000+01:002007-04-09T15:58:02.130+01:00

Hey! Give me a little time to write it down, why don't you? I guess the minutiae of trying to survive long enough to write about it is a bit beyond the imagination of some people.

Johnnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971727966602966484.post-56257075938622429632007-04-09T15:55:00.000+01:002007-04-09T15:57:38.947+01:00

Hey! Give me a little time to write it down, why don't you? I guess the minutiae of trying to survive long enough to write about it is a bit beyond the imagination of some people.

Johnnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971727966602966484.post-30788024541306156512007-04-09T15:40:00.000+01:002007-04-09T16:03:35.866+01:00

List Of Events I: Events I - VEvent I So what do I remember? My first clear memory is the best argument both for and against a more common diagnosis of hysterical-post-trauma amnesia. This is all the way back to yesterday. I’m standing in an office. I can tell right off the office is in a warehouse because it has those warehouse-type windows that yuppies like to have in their lofts. It’s

Johnnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971727966602966484.post-84438444339244497592007-04-09T15:06:00.000+01:002007-04-09T15:17:38.633+01:00

As quickly and quietly as I can, I move down the stairs, but truth be told, I think I could have made as much noise as a drum and fife corps and it wouldn’t have made any difference. As long as I was on the stairs, I was out of their reach. Out of reach, out of mind. Zombies appear to be very pragmatic. I hit the floor running. With my adrenaline-heightened senses, I could hear the

Johnnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971727966602966484.post-37579323519000899022007-04-09T00:18:00.000+01:002007-04-09T00:20:13.104+01:00

That shower was pure heaven. The warmth of the water, even the feel of the spray worked like a medicine. If I hadn’t had a nagging low-level anxiety, a sense of urgency telling me to hurry, I would have stayed until I had exhausted all the hot water, no matter how much there might have been. As it was, I spent a good deal of time there scrubbing until my skin was red and wrinkled.

Johnnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971727966602966484.post-7774730459457314632007-04-05T19:40:00.001+01:002007-04-06T12:05:57.599+01:00

Suddenly, I am tired of this. I take my hand away and the body tumbles off the sofa and lands face down in the pool of its own drying blood. A cloud of the blood’s odor puffs up like dust, but it is souring, old. I ignore the set of keys I now see clipped next to a set of handcuffs. They are irrelevant now. I concentrate until I am able to move towards the door. It is not graceful. I lurch

Johnnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971727966602966484.post-89634516979477038152007-04-05T18:43:00.001+01:002007-04-06T11:30:28.298+01:00

So what do I remember? My first clear memory is the best argument both for and against a more common diagnosis of hysterical-post-trauma amnesia. This is all the way back to yesterday. I’m standing in an office. I can tell right off the office is in a warehouse because it has those warehouse-type windows that yuppies like to have in their lofts. It’s pretty typical for a warehouse office:

Johnnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971727966602966484.post-55827170953498378012007-04-05T18:40:00.000+01:002007-04-06T11:49:29.827+01:00

I have no choice but to walk through the blood. I notice that there are already bloody footprints all over the office floor, but I am oddly reluctant to step into the rapidly-congealing pool of the former girl’s life. Odd, that is, for someone whose stomach is still rumbling for another serving of brains and eggs minus the eggs. Making a decision, I take a deep breath. That was a

Johnnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8971727966602966484.post-80412518682302834482007-04-05T02:54:00.000+01:002007-04-06T10:50:24.787+01:00

Good Question. I know that my name is John Zombie. I can’t say for sure that is actually who I am, but I can say that it is what I am. First, I am a “John,” at the very least in its lesser-known meaning of “man” (Which, considering number two, I loosely interpret to mean “male”), but also in one of its better-known definitions of a person who frequents prostitutes. Well,

Johnnoreply@blogger.com0