weird sex thing

Today when I woke up I was crying. But I don't know why. It might have had something to do with what I was dreaming (not that I remember what it was that I was dreaming), but I think it probably had more to do with the fact that I had to wake up. I think I was happy to be dreaming, I think being unconscious was better than being awake; I think being awake was the nightmare.

Or it could have been Donaghy chewing on my toes.

Yeah, don't ask me. He's a weird ball of lint.

No one here wears shoes anymore, because we're inside and it gets hot enough without wearing unnecessary articles of clothing. Let me tell you, when a bunch of sweaty people are all cooped up in the same place for an extended period of time, you start to get pretty damn grateful for extra changes of clothes. It keeps the body odour factor down. And we've got this water-recycling system set up, so, we can't exactly do laundry every day, but we do manage communal loads about once every three weeks. Some people still wear socks, I don't know why, I guess they're embarrassed by their feet. I'm not one of them. I mean, feet are weird looking no matter what you do to them - why bother hiding your weirdness? Especially now.

So I was sleeping with my bare toes exposed, and I guess Donaghy thought they looked tasty, because when I woke up he was gnawing on them.

"Is this some weird sex thing?" I asked him.

"Does you asking me that mean you want to have sex with me?"

Donaghy looked pretty hopeful, so I took particular delight in saying, "I'd let zombies eat my brain first." Which, y0u know, actually quite valid in our situation.

He gave one last tentative nibble on my littlest toe on my right foot; I kicked him in the head with my left foot. He went oomph and rolled over and stared up at the ceiling of the bunker and started giggling. He giggled his way into laughter and from laughter into hysterics, until he was curled up into a ball sobbing against his knees. He sounded like he had snot in his voice when he said, face still hidden, "They go for the eyes first."

They eat brains like candy. Candied brains.

So it's getting a bit stifling in the bunker. I think we're all going more than a little crazy, all jumbled together like jelly-babies of every colour and flavour stuffed in the same plastic baggie. I mean, I'm all for diversity, but some jelly-baby flavours just don't mix, y'know? Like, no one except for someone really sick - like that kid, Donaghy, from third grade, who ate paste during art class - eats popcorn jelly-babies with mint ones. That's just wrong.

Lately I've been feeling like a mint jelly-baby in a plastic baggie full of popcorn. Only substitute 'plastic baggie' for 'cement hellhole' and you're more along the right track. I'm almost at that point where I'm desperate enough to go on Outside.

When Barb shot herself in the head yesterday, I even contemplated sneaking a taste of her scattered brain matter. You know, just to see if I could stand stomaching it for the rest of my undead existence, if I did decide to make a break for it and end up zombiefied. But Donaghy (why, why, do you always end up with the most annoying people in an apocalyptic situation? At least we finally ran out of paste a week ago; I was starting to feel a little sick, watching Donaghy gorge himself on it all the damn time) distracted me with a rousing game of Scrabble - our set is missing its 'r's, for some bizarre reason, so we spell like we have textual lisps - and by the time I looked up again they had Barb all cleaned up, chopped up, and ready for the stew. They threw her brains in the incinerator, though, like they'd never heard the saying, "Waste not, want not." So I didn't get a chance to see if I could take a brains-only diet for the rest of my unlife.

Oh well, I guess I'll stick around until the next suicide before making my final decision about joining the zombie race. Mom always said I should make well-researched choices in life, after all.