Cats and dogs, living together...it's mass hysteria.

So…I‘ve been watching The Walking Dead as of late. I just finished watching season three the other day and I enjoy it thoroughly. Fascinating show…very addictive. Since I started watching this show, it got me thinking. What WOULD happen in an end-of-the-world situation such as this? I know zombies aren’t real. People don’t die and come back to life as a dead person that eats your face off. From what I’ve learned over the years by watching House, ER, and Quincy, MD, that’s pretty well impossible. There’s that one drug you can ingest down in South America, but that’s whole different story. I hear, anyways. Ok, so…the end of the world happens however it happens and I’m lucky enough to be a survivor, if you want to call that lucky.

 

How would I *possibly* even begin to know where to start to rebuild my life? What do I do first? Do I go out to find food? What about ammunition for self-defense against the zombies and possibly other survivors who might want something I have or would want to take over the throne in my little slice of heaven? Sure, I could try to stick it out in my apartment. If I had to survive only with what I had IN my apartment as of today, I’d last about three days at the very most. After that, I would have to take my chances out on the street going to the food co-op on the next block, and maybe the Kwik Trip on the way there as well. Both of those stores would be pretty empty, I’d assume, as they’re really the only two stores in the downtown area of my city that would sell food in anything resembling bulk quantities so they would be hit right away. But, let’s say for argument sake that I DO find enough food and bottled water to last me a week or so, maybe two at the most. I may or may not have electricity, so I can’t really plan on cooking anything that requires my oven or microwave. I have lighter fluid, so I can use my Zippo for primitive cooking if need be. I can’t grab anything that requires refrigeration or freezing because of the electricity problem again. If it’s winter, the back yard will do just fine and if I get cold I have a sub-zero sleeping bag and plenty of winter clothing, but what if it’s July? It’s going to get really warm really fast inside, especially if I’m using an open flame in close quarters to cook with and have no air conditioning. And when my food finally runs out? Who knows…I guess I’m going out again.

 

The next thing on my list would of course be self-defense. If I’m out looking for food or what have you and come across a zombie, I am forced to defend myself. It’s pretty much a given according to zombie movies and shows from the very beginning that zombies need to be hit in the head to be killed for whatever reason. I can shoot them, stab them, chop their heads clean off…dealers’ choice in that regard. If I make a lot of noise, more zombies come looking for what’s making all the noise. Unless I’m a REALLY good shot with a silent weapon like a crossbow or something like that (and I’m SO not a good shot with a crossbow or a bow and arrow), it’s a never ending cycle with the noise thing and attracting more zombies and so on and so forth. I’ll need ammunition, and lots of it…the closest of two gun shops is about three miles away in some very open territory that would give me relatively zero cover from zombies, and the next one about a mile from there. Since that wasn’t my first choice of survival preparations, they’ll likely be pretty well picked through by the time I get there so the chances of me even finding any rounds for my weapon (I shoot a .45 caliber handgun) may be very limited. I can take my chances and try to make it to the supersized department store way out on the south end of town which also sells hunting supplies, but that’s at least three times as far as the others across the same type of territory and would likely be very picked over as well. I would probably try to find a rifle and a stockpile of ammunition to match and hope there was enough to last me quite some time. Self-defense would also include the living as well. If I have food and someone else has none, the survival instinct in them says to take my food from me, and MY instinct says not to let them by any means necessary at this point. I don’t say that to be an asshole or anything, but hey…survival of the fittest and all that jazz. Defending myself against someone else who is armed and desperate (or several people) would be a LOT more difficult than a slow-moving zombie who doesn’t know why I’m pointing a gun at its head and does nothing to avoid it. In the event that I was wounded beyond the point of medical attention, I would pray that whoever was on the other end would do me the courtesy of putting me out of my misery so I didn’t get my face eaten off and turn into a zombie as well.

 

Do I stay in my current apartment? In all actuality, no. I would find somewhere more secure and away from the busiest part of town. I don’t know where that would be, but I’d come up with a place in a quick hurry. I would probably venture north, I think. The winters may be colder and would definitely be more difficult to endure then where I am now, but I would be farther away from a major city and it would be a lot easier to disappear, in my opinion. Outta sight, outta mind as far as zombies are concerned. Also, less populated areas means less human resistance to have to deal with. I don’t like people enough to begin with…I’d like them even less if they were shooting at me and trying to steal my food. Less populated also means less opportunity for restocking of supplies, but I’d take my chances. Six of one, a half dozen of the other.

 

There are an infinite number of things to worry about should this catastrophe occur. Where are my friends and family? Are my children ok? How do I know if there has been a cure found if communication lines are down? So many things to think about…it would be impossible to fathom them all and keep a level head. In the event of a total global meltdown and 99% of the population turning to zombies, would I honestly stand a snowball’s chance in hell of long-term survival? Not very likely, as much as I hate to say it. I’m just not that smart in that regard, I don’t think. If I were a character on The Walking Dead, I would probably be Jim, the hole digger. I would have been bitten early on, but also smart enough to know that I would become a danger to my friends in a very short period of time so I’d make the call for them to leave me behind as they traveled on. Sadly, given the grave circumstances, I would most likely take the cowards’ way out and leave one less zombie for the next guy to kill.     

You can't dig holes in February

I think I've officially hit a writers' block. As some of you might be aware, I have not added a single thing to my blog for quite some time and when I have, it's been relatively dark and somewhat uncomfortable to read for the most part. That's ok. I'm ok with that. However, at this moment I cannot think of a single thing that I think you people would want to read. Not one. I got all kinds of things to say, as anyone who knows me can attest to, but nothing worth writing home to Mom about, so to speak. So...it's time for a little digital diarrhea...see, a little play on words that I just did there. Fingers...digits...digital...get it? It's not important. It usually isn't with me. I've come to the conclusion that I'm not as smart as I thought I was. I'm slipping as I rapidly approach the beginning of my fifth decade here on this earth. Yes, my fifth. Do the math...it works out.

You might not know what makes me tick...why I do the things I do. I'm ok with that too. I don't answer to anyone, for the most part. Yeah, the normal stuff like my boss and the authorities and the like just as every other poor working-class stiff does. But who really tells me what to do and when to do it? Nobody does. That's MY job. If I want to wear argyle socks to bed, that's my call. I've been known to put a big smile on my face and beller out a nice friendly 'go fuck yourself' to random people on the street. I haven't had the crap beat out of me yet, but the day will come, I'm sure.

That was all I could think of to say just now. The rest...I'm gonna wing it.

I don't know what tequila tastes like. Or whiskey.
I most certainly DO know what vodka tastes like and have not tasted it since 1992.
I don't eat tomatoes. The taste of raw tomatoes makes me want to throw up...and it has.
There is a pair of rabbit ears on my television, and yes, they still work.
The background on my phone is a picture of Tardar Sauce. That's Grumpy Cat for those of you who aren't cool enough to know that. Usually it's boobs or something involving boobs, but right now it's Tardar Sauce.
Good and bad things in my life seem to happen in twos. Children, marriages, divorces, trips to jail, tours of duty through rehab...I'm sure there are others if I sat down and thought about it.
I do not own a car.
Never driven a motorcycle...they scare me. Actually, me driving one is what scares me. There's too much potential for recklessness and I'd certainly have not gotten as old as I am right now had I started riding one when I was old enough to.
Contrary to my popular belief, I'm not...ooooo, no. We'll just leave that one alone for now and save that for a rainy day, I'm thinking.

Cripes...I'm really at a loss here. Maybe I just started writing to hear myself think. Who knows. Maybe it's a substitute for what I really want out of life. Freedom. Even with the threat of the NSA monitoring everything I say and do on the internet, I'm still supposed to be protected by the first amendment. There are certain things I just won't tempt fate with, but for the most part I am able to come and go as I please here. But anyways...there are things to be done. I have an entire planet of things to see and do. Soon enough, I'll see and do them. As many as I can before it's my time to go. I may have a heart attack. Car crash. Fall off a cliff. Get mauled by a bear (my personal preference, to be quite honest).

There is traveling to be done...there are so many places on this earth I want to go that I could never think of them all. Germany. England. Norway. Spain. Ireland. Chile. Finland. The list goes on and on and on some more. I may travel to see people, or just places...I honestly have no idea. Wait...yes, I do. There are a few people I want to visit. Just a few.

As of right now in this entry I still haven't thought of a title.

Ok...that's better. I used to think I was quite the writer, just rambling off a bunch of stuff and thinking it was good stuff. And not just good...I mean like New York Times good. It's not. I'm an amateur writer and that's all I'll ever be. People have said "Hey, that was good..." and all that jazz. Yeah...it was good. Just good. It wasn't Pulitzer material by any means and it never will be. I'm alright with that too. I got a big comfy couch to sit on while I do this and that's cool. That will be all.

Tell me about the lambs, Clarice.

I'm colder than I used to be. It seems that as of late, I haven't had as much emotional involvement in certain things as I previously did. Do I just not care? Am I having an early mid-life crisis? Who knows. What I DO know is that after months and months of systematic emotional turmoil and trauma, I guess I just don't give a shit anymore. I'm starting to not like some people as much as I used to. My behavior is erratic...more so than usual. Day by day I grow more and more tired of my situation and the more and more I can't wait to get out of it. The drama, the fighting, the back stabbing, the bullshit that comes with it all...it's wearing me down and I can't wait to get away from it. I don't want to spend one more disgusting minute here than I have to.

Sure, there are things that I'm going to miss. My favorite coffee shop and the few good friends I have there. Same goes for work. There are a few people I'll miss there as well. My family, of course. They'll all understand why I can't wait to leave. Very few will notice that I'm even gone. For example...I recently had a back injury and needed to take some time off. The first and only person that even noticed my normal routine was amiss and I hadn't been around...the owner of the coffee shop. My boss called to make sure I was doing ok, and that was nice too. My parents, of course...they made sure I was doing alright. It hurts that people who I was once so close to...almost like family, really...have not once bothered to ask how I am. That hurts. It hurts and no, I don't like it. I don't like it and I'm not going to put up with it.

In a time frame of about three years, after I've had a chance to tie up some loose ends and make some arrangements, I will be leaving this fine city that I live in to undertake a new adventure. I don't know where it is yet, but as long as it's not here I will be perfectly happy. I won't look back and I may not even say goodbye. Pretty sure there won't be any broken hearts...not even mine.

Two down, ten to go...

So...the month of February is almost over and I've made it out relatively unscathed, for the most part. Few bumps and bruises here and there, but nothing I can't handle as I eternally reminded myself a mere 26 days ago.

February 1st...I got my first tattoo Yes, my very first one, contrary to popular belief. I had been thinking about it for a few years now and finally decided to pull the trigger and have it done. Many, many years ago I saw a Clint Eastwood movie starring himself as Gunny Highway ('Gunny' is the shortened word for the rank of gunnery sergeant in the USMC, for those of you who did not know) in which he said the line 'adapt and overcome', or something to that effect. I know there was more to it, and I can't for the life of me remember what it was. Unimportant. That line has stuck with me for many years as I've gone through my trials and tribulations in relationships, my recovery from drug and alcohol addiction, two failed marriages, several different jobs that I liked very much that didn't work out well, dropping out of college several times, and a few different health difficulties I've had to face. In all of those situations...I have adapted to the challenges I've had to face and I have overcome them in turn (for the most part). Still working on working myself up to quitting smoking, but that's a tough one no matter who the hell you are so I'm not gonna dog myself about it too awful much. My father had quit smoking cold turkey and never smoked again another day in his life. I know for a fact I will never be a tenth of the man he was, and I'm OK with that...truly I am.

Got off on a tangent there...my bad. So, yeah...my tattoo. It says the words 'adapt and overcome' down the middle of my spine, but it's not in a language that many people would understand. I didn't want to get it in anything that everyone and his brother usually gets their tattoos in...no Olde English, no hieroglyphics, and nothing you'd normally see in Gangland USA. So, I thought of a few other obscure languages that people normally don't see and/or use. I had it narrowed down to Braille, Morse code, and binary code. I thought long and tirelessly about this for quite some time...about three years on and off with quite a bit of seriousness. In the end...Morse code won the battle.

So, I brought my design to my friend Jake, owner of Twisted Skull Studios in the third week in January and we went over details and placement and all that good stuff, and I made my appointment to come in and get it done right away on the first of the month. Longest two weeks of my life, I shit you not. First of the month comes...I got up in the morning and I ALMOST psyched myself out of it. I thought everything under the sun...I don't need it, don't want it, can't afford it, it'll hurt, I'll get addicted to them and want more, and blah blah blah and so on and so forth. Nope...I stuck to my guns and walked in the door at 1000 sharp. Got all prepped and ready...Jake says "Here, have a seat in this chair and relax." Then...panic set in. OMG ITS GONNA FUCKING HURT AND IM GONNA CRY LIKE A PUSSY. Yeah...that's what went through my head...no shit. Didn't utter a sound. I sucked it up and I told my self no matter how much it hurt I would sit through it and get it done. I was committed and there was no going back at this point.

Now then...Morse code, as you know, is a series of dots and dashes. A couple letters have only one dot or dash, but most have a combination of two, three and even four. So, it wasn't just one tattoo I was getting...it was several dozen small ones all in a row going right down my spine, or so I had it stuck in my head. The first character was an E, the one on the very bottom. An 'E' in Morse code is just one dot...no big deal. In my design, the dots are relatively small...about the size of the leftovers of a paper punch. Jake prepared me that he was starting, and I steeled my nerves. There was pain, I won't lie...but it wasn't a painful pain. It was more of an annoying kind of pain, like a mild bee sting or a cat scratch. One part down...39 to go, if I counted right. The rest were not bad...a few were more painful than others, but for the most part...very tolerable.

I know, I know...this was probably a lot more mentally anguishing for me than it needed to be, and I'm REEEEEALLY good at making mountains out of molehills. But you know, this was something that I knew I was going to have to live with for the rest of my life, and for a long time I was not OK with that, but I am now. Even if I'm not in the future...I'm stuck with it, and that's alright with me.

It was March...a long time ago.

I thought I was done writing...I was wrong. One more thing I need to get off my chest. I've spoken with a select few people about this over the years, but not very many. I never dealt with it properly when it happened, and to this day I still haven't. I know writing about it probably won't help a whole hell of a lot, but maybe this is the catalyst that will help me finally get started on the path to dealing with this in a positive manner, if that's possible. Time will tell, I guess.

When my father passed away in March of 1998, I was still drinking very heavily. I was a sloppy, disgusting mess and became basically unrecognizable to most people who knew me. Somehow, the day of the funeral, I managed to pull myself together long enough to make myself presentable in front of family and friends. I thought I was being so slick and doing such a good job hiding it. Now that I think about it after I've been sober for some time...they knew. They all knew.

The events of this day are a blur for me now...some are solid memories, some are only hearsay in my own mind due to the emotional state of complete and utter breakdown I was in at the time.

It was very cold that day, if I remember right...bitter cold. The wind stung my eyes and I had a hard time keeping them open as I walked from the car to the mausoleum. I don't even remember who I rode with that day, to be honest. It was all kind of a blur. Walking into the mausoleum, there were people in there gathered around my father's casket and all I could do was look at them in a daze, not really sure what to expect. This would be the most emotional funeral I had ever attended...I was scared to death inside, and it showed. I made no attempt to hide my emotions, just like everyone else in the room. My relatives were there, close friends of the family...they all felt the same thing. Maybe not exactly the same thing, but you know what I mean.

The service began and I went numb inside, almost instantly. I don't remember much of what the priest said, but I know it was good things about my dad and some of the good things he had done in his life. My dad was the coolest guy I ever knew...he knew everything there was to know about everything and he was my hero...he still is to this day. He taught me how to drive a stick shift, how to shoot a gun...and who knows how many other things a boy needs to learn from his dad.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the gentleman with the bugle standing there...I knew why he was there and I knew it was coming but I had no idea how it would affect me, emotionally and physically. When the music started...I lost all control and at that point I was on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably on my hands and knees. That was the longest playing of Taps I had ever heard in my entire life...no exceptions. I didn't think it would ever end, nor did I think I would be able to stand up when it was over.

When the man finished, I remember some people helping me to my feet but I don't remember who they were, and shortly afterwards, I heard the sound of a 21-gun salute outside. Maybe that happened before Taps...I honestly don't remember. Each shot that was fired hit me right in the heart...a little part of me left as those sounds seemed to echo forever in my mind. After the last shot was fired, I walked outside. I didn't feel the cold...or the wind. I didn't feel anything, really. I was numb through and through. I could have been standing in Siberia and it wouldn't have mattered at that point. Nothing mattered to me and all I could do was stand there and cry. Face in the wind, tears freezing on my cheeks before they could fall to the ground. What happened next...I will never forget for as long as I live.

My brother, Andrew, was still young...not quite yet a teenager. As I stood staring down the cold, he came over to me, tugged at my sleeve, and as I turned around he handed me a shell casing he had picked up off the ground and said "Here...I think Dad wants you to have this."

I don't remember anything else after that.