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.
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