Dear Diary,

Today I told Bobby from math class that I like liked him, and then I ate his brain. It was a little scary at first but it was just so tasty I couldn't stop. But diary I'm definitely, positively, super not a zombie! Here's why:

1. Zombies are gross and I'm a princess.

2. I'm not all slow and shambly like a zombie: I'm super quick and just getting faster! Yesterday I even outran Mr. Sparklehorn, and he's a unicorn. He seemed really mad that I caught him though and kept trying to throw me off, the silly goose.

3. I'm a picky eater. Everyone knows that zombies chow down on whatever if they can't get brains. Not me! I like brains only, and the smarter the better!

4. Daddy says that all girls go through changes when they hit puberty and that its totally normal. Zombies aren't normal, so I can't be a zombie, so there! *sticks out tongue*

5. Zombies just get all moldy and nasty and have bones poking out. All I've gotten are these super cute tentacles that can come out of my mouth! They're all tickly and friendly and pink, and they let me get a super good grip on heads.

6. When I just take a nibble instead of a big bite, my friends don't turn into zombies or get like me. They just get a big smile on their faces and want to play any game I want! I love making myself new friends. <3

Thats all I have time to write tonight Diary! I have to go to a sleepover!

The young man was cornered, in his frenzied escape attempt he'd run into a dead end, the monster slowly crept closer. A thick ocher fog enveloped the world, overwhelming the man's senses. A pair of pale white eyes stared from the foggy abyss. The young man steeled himself, raising his fists for a last stand.

"Come on you filthy zombie! I can take you!" He screamed.

As quickly as the fog rolled in, it rolled out to reveal a tall, pale man with delicate facial features. A long black cape flowed around his body. His thin eyebrows raised in confusion.

"What did you just call me?" He asked in dulcet tones.

"A zombie! A corpse that roams the earth, sent straight from hell." The young man's fists shook with fear.

"My dear boy you're mistaken, and as a firm believer in an educated populace let me straighten out this confusion.

Reason the first why that label is grossly inaccurate is the mastery of human language. Words are the paint which I use to create art on the canvas of a person's ears. Can a zombie do this?" The man cleared his throat. He produced a small pitch pipe from his cape, blowing into it to find the note he needed.

"I am the very model of a modern Major-General, I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral, I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical, from Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical; I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical, I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical, About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news, With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse. I'm very good at integral and differential calculus; I know the scientific names of beings animalculous: In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-General..........." The man sang quickly without missing a beat or syllable, taking a pause, or being out of breath afterwards.

"Reason the second is the disgusting cuisine they dine on. Human brain matter and sinew ripped from the bone. Unseasoned, uncooked, teeming with pathogens and bacterium. My palate is more refined, my tastes exquisite. The finest part of a person isn't the meat, it's what flows through it.

Reason the third, this one should be obvious since you can see it with your own eyes. Look upon my cape. Hand sewn and tailored to my exacting specifications. The garments I wear underneath would make even the richest sultan green with envy. Those shambling monsters wear rags, the ones they were buried in.

Reason the fourth. Those abominations roam the earth since the afterlife has reached capacity. They have risen from the fall of death, I have never fallen. After cursing that foul god, death may no longer take me. Some call it a curse, I call it a gift. The gift of the Nosferatu. The only thing I have in common with them is that all it takes is one bite, and you become one of us."

The pale man silently floated to the young man's side. Fangs gleamed in the moonlight.

"So I'm going to be one of you?" The young man asked, his voice quivered in fear.

"Even better, you'll be part of my entourage. Stay still, this will only hurt for a moment."

1. I've still got a pulse. Classically the undead are, well, dead; the way my heart is kicking in my chest seems to indicate I'm not one of those. Wait...unless I'm a rage zombie; one that's like, alive but overcome with the need to kill and destroy and feed. Hm. I feel like the fact that I can calmly sit here evaluating my likelihood of zombiism rules that one out.

2. Brains--or any other organ meat, actually--just don't sound appetizing. In fact I'm not really hungry at all, given the circumstances, though I'll probably need to eat within the next few hours, both to keep up my energy and so that my stomach growling doesn't lure in more of those things.

3. That's another thing; Aren't zombies supposed to be a sort of hivemind or collective consciousness? I'm definitely not one of those. No moaning voices in my mind urging me to seek out braiiiiiinnnnssss wait, oh shit nevermind.....

"Come on snap out of it. Your still alive everything is fine okay. Your life is great remeber. Nothing bad is happening in the world." I say to myself looking in the mirror. today is one of the bad days since it all started. "just remember the three reason I'm definitely not a zombie:

1. I would have died. (I'd remember dying right?)
2. I don't look like a zombie.
3. I don't feel like a zombie."

I've told myself these three things everyday since the apocalypse began. I'm terrified of becoming a zombie. I love my life. I have, well had a great boyfriend. And my parents they were amazing too. I guess I loved my life. The only thing that hasn't changed is that I have my dog. But he's becoming almost afraid of me you could say. But there's nothing to be afraid of because of the three things I tell myself everyday, right? The only issue is its becoming more and more obvious, I am a zombie.

It’s been 36 days since I’ve last seen a living person.

I see dead ones all the time. More often than not they’ve been dead for days or weeks. Torn open and left to rot. Rotting organs spilling out onto the pavement or floor, deep red or dark brown, or beige grey, depending on how old the corpse is. Flies swarming like bees swarm a nest.

Do you know what happens when necrotic tissue rots for long enough? It melts. It turns into an organ goo and melts into the nearest porous surface. Usually, their old clothes, but occasionally a carpet or couch cushion, depending on where they died. Then it dries, like paint, and the liquified organs act like glue.

The worst part is the smell. The stench of thousands of bacteria colonizing and making homes for themselves. The gut bacteria, released into the open air, an offence to your nose and an attack on your senses. It can be smelled from hundreds of feet away. It’s the type of smell to make your eyes water, and to make you gag thirteen times as you use your blunt kitchen knife to try to separate the more palatable cuts of meat.

sigh But it’s worth it. The taste of your brethren is divine. Maybe it’s the disease that makes it taste so sweet, or maybe it’s something that’s been in me my whole life. But when I cut those tender, marbled strips of muscle off of the bodies, I feel as though dukes and royalty of old times would envy me. The way the meat just falls apart in your mouth, the slime of rot sticking in your throat after, is borderline orgasmic. The rot juice iss nature’s finest sauce, naturally formed on this first-class cuisine.

I’ve lost control a while ago. I know I have. I tell myself I’m acting, roleplaying, just pretending to be one of the undead. I tell myself I’m playing along, trying to ensure my own safety and survival, lest the undead detect and consume me. But when they do detect me, in the rare occasion I do see one, another stumbling former person. They detect me as one of their own, and leave me be.

I tell myself that’s great news, that I must be such a great actor, that broadway stars and shakespeare himself would be proud of me. But I know they would be horrified.

Going insane isn’t like the movies, where there is a definite crescendo, and then a snap and a bang. Going insane is like falling asleep. It definitely happens, but there’s no one point where you can say, ‘ah, that’s when it happened’. You slowly fall into it, so slow that you don’t even realize it. You’re gently lulled into undead scavengery, the disease’s fingers coaxing you into doing worse and worse things.

Geez, I should listen to myself. I’m such a great actor. No wonder the undead think I’m one of them.

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