I remember picking up the keys at the lawyer’s office, opening the front door, and walking in for the first time, my dog, Buster, at my side. I finally owned my own house. It was just going to be the two of us.
I had my mom look after the pup for a few days and I got my brother to help me move stuff in. My mom didn’t like the idea of me, a single woman, living alone, but it was what I wanted. I was strong enough to help my brother lift all the furniture, after all. And I had my hound.
I’d been living there for about a week before I started to get really annoyed with Buster. If he wasn’t outside trying to dig a hole under the shed, he was whining at the back door to get out there. Finally I got my brother to come over with a shovel and help me dig out whatever Buster was trying to get at.
And what do you know? Dead bodies.
So I had a choice. Contact the authorities and lose my house until they finished their investigation–it could be a year!–or drag the bodies out and rebury them so the dog couldn’t find them. I decided on the latter. Which would have been fine if they hadn’t come back to life.
Now my life is all zombies, all the time. They come in and raid my fridge in the middle of the night, I keep finding the occasional limb under my bed – Buster! – and every single morning as I’m getting in the car to go to work it’s, “Hey Julia! How ’bout them brains? When are we gonna get them yummy brains for dinner?”
All I wanted was a nice quiet life in my own house. Maybe Mom was right.
Linda G. Hill 
Simple solution. Remind the zombies that they each have brains of their own and then provide them with trepanning drills and soup spoons.
Maybe get them some pork brains at the store?
Think they’d know the difference? Haha!
Are You Insane? LOLL!
Oh, just a little. 😉
Reblogged this on PEERK N' COFFEE!.
Thanks for the reblog. 🙂
I see another reality show here: Zombie Relators, Ink.
Haha! Great idea! 😀
Something to write on your summer vacation, lol. Just need a few hand-held cameras, your unscripted script, a few zombies who feel discriminated against by the growth of de-zombiefied zones, and some empty real estate. I’ll be in charge of coffee and snacks — taking everyone’s dietary issues into consideration if I can.
Snacks are fine, but the delicacies might be a but hard on the locals. 😉 haha
If I remember, Canadians, locals delicacies were a 24 or 2, chips, and oh dear, my brain has become Americanized and thus a tool of Donald Trump — I can’t remember what we had for desert. Cookies? Timmies?
A 24 of blue and a side order of brains? Haha. 🙂
Well, at least she won’t be bored:D
This is true! 🙂