To be perfectly honest about it, I’m a dude with quite a few weird kinks. One of them is this obsession with zombies and how to deal with them. To pass the time on the train I take to plotting how I can execute the man in front of me should he start exhibiting symptoms of zombie virus infection (a ball-point pen through an eye socket and up the undead brain). In the likelihood of an epidemic of the everlastingly hungry, I’ve plotted our town out and have quite a sound plan on how to escape, survive, and repopulate the planet (it initially involves the steel baseball bat I keep in our bedroom, a local mall, and the dossiers of teenagers I’ve been stalking through the Internet). In case things go horribly, horribly wrong and my college buddies and I find ourselves running out of food, I’ve thought out who among us should be sacrificed for the good of the gang (sorry, Amy, most of the menfolk in our little circle are likely to fight back). My calm demeanor when playing particularly nasty survival-horror video games—developed by years of desensitization through voracious consumption of apocalyptic fiction and such media—assures me that I can face the rise of the shamblers without panicking, thus increasing my chances for survival. Call me a couple of cards shy of a full deck if you will but I believe in being prepared for the possibility of an end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it contagion. I’ve got it all covered, man.

RAMBLE ON