The next morning I walked to the Starbucks for a Venti Americano – I’m not one of those people who call it a “large” in defiance. Like that will show ’em! Show them what exactly? Anyway.

So if you want a mental picture: It wasn’t yet sunny, 8:21 a.m. and 72 degrees. I was strolling down the right side of the sidewalk wearing jeans and a green polo, unshaven, looking slightly hung over yet unseasonably cheery, and completely fucking stupid.

AND I HAD ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING CLUE THAT I COULD HAVE BEEN ATTACKED BY A BRAIN-THIRSTY ZOMBIE AT ANY GODDAMN SECOND! HOW THE SHIT AM I SUPPOSED TO GO BACK OUTSIDE? HOW DOES ANYONE GO OUTSIDE? HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO GO BUY THAT STUPID BOX MILK THAT I NEED IN CASE OF ZOMBIE ATTACKS, IF GOING TO BUY THAT STUPID BOX MILK WILL SUBJECT ME TO ZOMBIE ATTACKS?

This sucks. The term “paralyzed with fear” doesn’t adequately describe what I’m going through because it ignores that I’m now walking down the street mumbling to myself and making hand gestures at no one while nervously biting at the insides of my cheeks.

By the time I got home I was significantly caffeinated, and understandably jittery. I couldn’t sit still. I wanted to stick my head out of the window and scream, “What the fuck are you doing?” at the next person walking by, but I decided against that, lest they attempt to answer me. I was in no mood for conversation.

How does anyone do anything? Don’t they care? Do they even know? I thought I was late to the party, but is it possible that no one knows? That this is all going on under our noses, and the only ones who do know are at DUM? Could they be covering it up? Why hasn’t the mayor said anything? Jesus, I hate being in the dark. It’s a calculus equation with too many variables – no matter how much I thought about it, I just ended up with something like this:

Completely fucking useless. I need more coffee.

I decided I needed to call someone to help me figure things out, ’cause it sure wasn’t making any sense yet. I thought of as many people as I could that I would be able to have an adult conversation with about the existence of zombies in D.C. and potential evasive measures, which of course was no one. So I called my mom. She told me that she loved me and that maybe I should take a nap, then go buy a gun. Thanks, mom. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. Dad wasn’t home.

I called friends and people that I used to work with – but only the ones that I wasn’t planning on using as future professional contacts. No one had heard shit. A couple playfully suggested that I buy a gun. Most just laughed and asked if I had been drinking again. Great. I’m the idiot, possibly alcoholic (based on their assumptions, which was a little unsettling, by the way), out-of-work attorney who cried “zombie.” For all that it mattered, I could have been telling them I was planning to start a goat farm and looking for seed capital. No one knew a god damn thing, and I hate goats.

I’m completely alone in here, and there could be zombies out there. I think.

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