Walk With The Dead And Dream!

      The Walking Dead starts up again this Sunday. If you don't know, it's a show about trying to survive during a zombie apocalypse. So, a show made to scar children. I have been amped up for this show since it started. It's well written and the zombies look fantastic. The quality of how the zombies look is important. It's very easy to go cheap with things like that. A lot of zombie movies make that mistake. Cheapening up the look of the zombies. It's like substituting Kellogg's Frosted Flakes for some shitty store brand. Technically the generic brand is frosted flakes, but, tastes like sugared up drywall mixed with disappointment, regret and shame. I digress. To celebrate such a mundane affair as a series season premiere. I thought I'd psychoanalyze my own innate fear of zombies.

Un-dead Zombie...not Voodoo Zombie. 

Though, I wouldn't want to run into this guy in a dark alley.

Doll carriers are capable of anything.

      I indeed have a fear of zombies. I would qualify that to say that it's not necessarily the zombies themselves, but, the dread the situation they present fills me with. Like one of those urban legends you hear about a rock star's stomach being filled with cum. Only with this, rock star is me, the cum is abject fear of impending doom and the thing responsible for the fear spooge is looming zombie dismemberment. Just so we're straight. I'm a rock star filled with zombie encroachment spooge. Wait, not that I'm blowing zombies, like the rock stars. No. Wait. Not that rock stars blow zombies. Zombies blow...encroaching rock stars...the cum is...isn't...not-hm...spank? Dammit. 

 Zombies get me kind of like this, but with lots of pee pee and 

a large amount of shit in my pants...and uh...no cum.

      I can watch a show about them and be entertained, grasping fully that zombies don't and are incapable of existing, however. It's what my mind does with zombies. Turns them into reality nightmare fuel. I have dreams where I imagine myself in a zombie crowded situation, be it in the classic boarded up house or the trashed wing of a hospital. Then, the poorly constructed barrier's break and there I am, gunning away while the house/room/hosipital wing/adult book store is consumed by walking dead ladies and gents. It fills me with a sense of being absolutely, unequivocally fucked. 

Fucked.

      So, I get this hopeless, closing in feeling of being completely fucked, in every nightmare I have about these fucking things. Why is that? I sort of think the zombies represent the concept of "death" for me in a way. As I am a slow witted simpleton, I have appropriated a group of walking dead men to symbolize death bearing down on me. I'm not creative. This doesn't feel like an satisfactory answer, however. For during my non-panicked nightmare hours, I distinctly have a feeling of not fearing death. I realize the futility in fear it. It's inevitable. I understand that. Though, I won't know until the day, if I'll react that way, right? I mean, anyone can talk a good game but, when it comes down to the wire, none of us know. 

A pan and a plan of attack is the knee jerk reaction sure...

      Is death's inevitable arrival veiled as zombie encroaching finality in my head? Possibly. I do seize up and sweat, like a priest at a molestation trial, at the thought of zombies taking me the fuck out. Overall, it only seems to partly fit. Perhaps, their promulgation to end my existence isn't the message of death approaching. It's eminent failure they represent. Those fetid corpses walking toward me, closing in. That's failure. An all encompassing end to whatever it is I am or will be doing...forever. Shit. Maybe it's a combo of them both, death and failure. I know for certain that when I watch them on t.v. I don't shit my pants. I think it's kind of cool. So, what the hell's with that?

Zombie-rific!

      Maybe in watching the representation of my fear of failing or of death...or both, in a television facsimile,  I distance myself or own the fear in some way. Who knows for sure. I'll have to find a psychiatrist that'll work for dick jokes and spare change one day. They might help me sort it all out. There will be a lot of Kleenex used for tears instead of masturbation that day. Until then, I'll keep watching zombies consume humanity with a perverse sense of wonder. The apocalyptic grandeur they leave in their wake teasing a smile from deep within, because after all, it's not me their devouring. It's a stupid bastard that failed at a fucking head shot.

In the head...ALWAYS in the head. Dumb ass.