(Excuse me while I take a stroll into the utterly foolish.)
Here’s a helpful but not at all unguessable bit of info: I just took a survey that determined I have a 24% chance of surviving a zombie apocalypse. Right. As if anyone thinks I have any kind of chance of surviving a zombie apocalypse. I’d be the one standing in the street watching them approach, pointing and saying, “Hey.” People around me might figure out that something was going on and be able to save themselves. I would just be lost. I’m actually surprised my score was so high! (Yes, you know you want to see your own score. Go on, check out the quiz. I’ll wait.)
I don’t, in truth, spend much time worrying about this sort of thing. What would be the point when I already know my fate? If I’d scored in the 40s or 50s, that would maybe mean I’d have a fighting chance, so I’d actually have to give some thought to advance planning. Like turning my craft room into a bunker, for example. But with a 24%, I can continue along in my blythely indifferent way and when the apocalypse comes, it just comes. Besides, what would I do if I survived the zombie apocalypse? There would surely not be enough time to sit around reading or knitting or sewing summer dresses. And speaking of summer dresses, what do you wear after the world has been overrun with killer zombies? Never mind. There are too many annoyances involved with surviving this particular apocalypse.
But talk of zombies reminds me of a pitifully bad film I saw in college, White Zombie, in which Béla Lugosi turns a young woman into a zombie so she’ll be his slave. Even with her as a zombie, however, he can’t get any play. My clearest memory of watching this movie was the fabulous MST3K-like interaction between the audience and the screen.
Hmm … is it obvious I’ve got too much time on my hands? I’m sitting home with a nasty cold and restless as all get out. Cabin fever, and I’ve only been home two days. I need to get well just so my brain doesn’t atrophy.