She's ready. She just needs to breathe.





And while I'm here, SIDENOTE: In the event of the actual zombie apocalypse, we are all effed. But don't just take my word for it. Go right ahead and ask people who've experienced any other kind of natural disaster (zombies = natural disaster, obviously, unless they are friendly zombies but then that would render this fun rant I have going on here null so for the sake of my gracing the internet with my very important, very sophisticated, very educated opinions, let's just anticipate the zombies wanting our brains kay!), ie, Katrina, Gustav, our friends in Haiti, all those hot trees over on the west coast, and our uncomfortably damp friends in Pakistan. Or any other ones, pick your favorite. Having been a part of the relief efforts of the first two not-zombie disasters mentioned, let me assure you that whoever you choose to ask will tell you that FEMA is not in any way going to keep the undead from devouring your fleshy bolts and gears. Seeing as the powers that be cannot figure out a way to keep cities safe from a little wind and rain OR provide aid in a timely way, or even in any kind of way that makes any sort of sense, I promise you that they are in no way preparing for when the zombies come. And if TV has taught us anything, it's that they are definitely coming. ANYWAY, MORAL: If you find yourself one of the survivors, do not waste time looking for any sort of government-sanctioned colony (cause even if you find one do you really want to spend your last days filling out the same forms seventy-nine times? no, you don't, because it's really hard to run from zombies around the outside of the colony while you try and remember your social security number and your dog's cousin's maiden name). Also do not even entertain the idea that there is a cure, because there isn't, they're fuckin zombies.

As for what you should do, I don't know, does it look like I'm wearing a badge?
Jeez.






I have one lovely bound journal that is an artwork in progress, added to when I want to share something with myself. Then there are its cousins, the journals for jotting and ripping out pages and fragments of thought that may or may not make it somewhere else (usually depending on whether or not I misplace the journal said fragment is deposited in before it has a chance to mature) and for more than occasionally resting coffee cups on. And then there are the blogs, of which I've never been sure about, except for time spent far away from home. For whatever reason, I feel like picking up here where sixteen-year-old Lindsay left off. And cause I do whatever I want. But you knew that.