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Post-feasting zombie. Word count: 40,592

Happy Thanksgiving, one and all. Had a lovely day — ran 8K in the morning, and then cooked and ate and watched football and wrote a bit for the rest of the day. Lovely company, wonderful food, etc. etc. etc. etc.


“Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit!” It had been a long time since I’d thrown a temper tantrum — at least three years — so I was about due. “I’ve been having the worst luck ever since I turned into a zombie. This isn’t fucking fair!”

“Brains.” You are acting like a child. Pull yourself together. Grow a pair.

“Grow a pair?” I shrieked. “Grow a pair? Are you seriously telling me that I need to grow a pair of testicles? You know what? I had a perfectly good working pair of balls before you came into my life you sadistic sack of shit.”

“Brains.” We are not amused.

“Well neither are we…. am I…. Whatever. Neither am I. Amused. I haven’t been amused one bit since this whole thing started. Not one bit.”

“Br–.” We–

“Do you know, Westy, how much I absolutely love being amused? Oh wait, let me correct that. How much I loved being amused? I fucking adored it. Being amused was my favorite past time. And now I’m looking at a future where I have no more amusement. Ever. Ever. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

“Br–.” We–

“That’s right, you have no idea how it makes me feel. But you know what? Neither do I? Know why? Because I hardly feel shit anymore because, I don’t know, there’s a sentient fucking virus stuck in my head, taking over all the parts of my brain that feel shit. I’m not even sure that I’m angry right now, that’s how fucked up my head is.”

“Br–.” The–

“I don’t know why I’m yelling. I think it’s just something I enjoy — or enjoyed, thank you very much — doing back when I had feelings, and a life, and working fucking genitalia.”

“Br–” Wou–

“No, I won’t let you get a word in edgewise. I don’t care what you have to say right now.”