Hopefully Not Brains

It’s the middle of Sunday night and I’m craving . . . something. I dunno, it’s just one of those weird things you get from time to time, when you want a particular food, but can’t quite figure out what it is.

I’ve tried everything in my kitchen (mustard, cheese, 3 Musketeers bar, gum, diet root beer, and the bit of the apple that wasn’t moldy) and I still have this craving. I could go to the store and buy more food, but I know I’d just end up with a gallon of chocolate ice-cream and then I’d eat it and still probably not be satisfied.

NOTE: I originally typed a ‘galloon’ of ice-cream, which sounds like it really ought to be a measurement. Like ten gallons makes a galloon. Wait, gallons are on the Imperial system, so it couldn’t be something simple like ten. It would need to be pointlessly complicated like eleven and a half gallons and an egg makes a galloon.

This is just really irritating. I desperately want to eat something specific, but my body can’t figure out how to tell me what it is. I also have this weird sore on my calf. It’s kinda itchy. I have no idea where I got it, though I was at a park today, so it’s possible some critter ran up, bit me on the lower leg, and then scampered away without me noticing.

Okay, so no, that’s not very likely, even for me. It also looks like the sore is getting bigger. It doesn’t hurt. In fact, I wouldn’t have noticed it save for the fact that a chunk of my leg actually fell off. I duct taped it back on, but it didn’t really seem to help.

So, here I am, desperately hungry for something, bits of me falling off, and I’m just kinda shambling around the apartment, occasionally bumping into things.
Oh crap. I think I’m turning into a zombie.

It makes sense. I want to eat something, possibly brains, bits of me are falling off, and I’m slow and rather clumsy. Well, in all honesty, I’m slow and clumsy anyway.

First off, please allow me to apologize for my coming rampage of destruction. I realize that I may be responsible for the destruction of the human race and civilization as we know it, so sorry for that as well.

Though, just to be on the safe side, please don’t shoot me in the head until you’re certain I’ve turned into a zombie and I just don’t have a weird craving for broccoli or something. To do this, ask me (from a safe distance) why I hate reality shows. If I start frothing and making semi-coherent sentences, I’m fine (seriously). If I don’t respond or reply that I love reality shows and that you should come closer, feel free to open fire.

Though, please don’t do this before 11:00 am. I’m really not coherent until then.

Brai . . . errr . . . Cheers,
-Jason

Duooooodenum!

A small group of people are running through the dark countryside, tripping over roots and blundering into trees in their mad dash. Behind them, zombies slowly and relentlessly pursue, their decaying arms outstretched, their feet shuffling them ever forward.

The zombies catch sight of their prey and one lets off a mournful wail.

Brains!

The cry is taken up by the rest of the horde.

Brains! Brains! Braaaaaains!

Except for one zombie.

Duodenum! Duoooooodenum!

The rest of the zombies pause, turning to look at their fellow.

Brains?

Duodenum!

The zombies stare at one another. One scratches its head, a gesture remembered from its days among the living.

One zombie seems to hesitate

Pancreas?

Another zombie raises its hand, which falls off.

Liver?

The zombies seem to consider this, swaying slightly, and then begin to move again.

Brains! Duoooodenum! Pancreas! Bronchomediastinal Trunk! Braaaains!