by Pete Funk
In the case of a catastrophe involving my neighbors becoming zombies, I’d like to get a few things out of the way before they begin knocking insistently at my door in a way that suggests their intention of tearing through my scalp to dine on my brains. 1) I will happily hand over the memories that have progressively complicated both my waking hours and deeper dreams. 2) I would request that my discomfited past be taken first. 3) I freely offer up the choice cuts of bad decisions carried out under the influence of various pharmaceuticals obtained via a coded conversation conducted with such fluency that I am another person entirely. These rare meats have marinated in a broth of self-destruction and fear for so long that either a legion of zombies or a packed seminar of well-heeled therapists could dine well for many years. I give them up freely. They are too rich and in constant juxtaposition to my stated purpose of simply trying, despite myself, to honestly love a few people while I make my way from here to there. I doubt whether any self-respecting zombie would digest what I’m desperate to reject. There are perfectly ordinary aspirations sweetly attainable.