Look, I’m fine with this. I wasn’t going to make it forever. The zombies are relentless and my endurance has A.D.D. I can’t even have a decent cigarette break in the damn zombie apocalypse. The non-smokers don’t give me smug looks anymore. They just try and devour me. What I really want is for the zombie that eventually tracks me down to go for one of my plump thighs instead of my pulsing neck. Please, not the neck. Everyone I’ve seen go got it in the neck. And, if a zombie (who didn’t ask for this monstrous non-llife mind you) happens to indulge my one request somehow I hope my flesh will taste like applewood bacon. Smoked applewood bacon.
I HAVEN'T WRITTEN A SHORT STORY IN A WHILE. WHAT DO YOU THINK? MORE TO COME.
During these past nine months, I have been as mediocre as humanly possible. Being average is the hardest way to live. Seriously. I know we just met and that last statement may come off as overwhelmingly self-deprecating, which could lead you to the assumption that I am a pretentious prick. Okay, this could be true but at least give me some time to color in the lines before you leave disappointed. Again, self-deprecating & I’m sorry in advance for anymore of those outbursts. Let me start over.
Nine months ago I had enough figured out in my life to get through the days without the stereotypical ennui pushing down upon so many middle-aged men nowadays. There is a pill for this. Side effects: gout and death.
I had a job, albeit a clandestine one. Look, I’m not complaining. Really. I was a better-than-bad food reviewer for a high-class, elite, European-based company. This company, I wish not to name for reasons soon to come, made Zagats look like the company it was: a service for run of the mill Americans. Said company, my company, reviewed only the finest of the fine-ding establishments throughout the world. Of course, some establishments should be left to the imagination and not picked over with a fine-tooth comb, especially ones that know about your past way too well.