zombie

You ate my dog, you undead freak!__ey! Watch the slander. I hear the acceptable term is __orporeallychallenged_ now. No need to be rude.

I write about the scariest monsters: The ones inside us all. And the ones that want to eat what is inside us all.

The pretty ones are usually unhappy. They expect everyone to be enamored of their beauty. How can a person be content when their happiness lies in someone else's hands, ready to be crushed at any moment? Ordinary-looking people are far superior, because they are forced to actually work hard to achieve their goals, instead of expecting people to fall all over themselves to help them.

I like living in my head because in there, everyone is kind and innocent. Once you start integrating yourself into the world, you realize that people are nasty, mean creatures. They're worse than zombies. People try to crush your soul and destroy your happiness, but zombies just want to have a little nibble of your brain.

Don't be a zombie for anyone, if your oppressor likes zombies, cinemas are not located in mars.

They made a major mistake," he blurted out, "the dumb bastards, when they didn't start by killing you first.""Benjamin Thomas Parish, that was the sweetest and most bizarre compliment anyone's ever given me."I kissed him on the cheek. He kissed me on the mouth."You know," I whispered, "a year ago, I would have sold my soul for that."He shook his head. "Not worth it." And, for one-ten thousandth of a second, all of it fell away, the despair and grief and anger and pain and hunger, and the old Ben Parish rose from the dead. The eyes that impaled. The smile that slayed. In another moment, he would fade, slide back into the new Ben, the one called Zombie, and I understood something I hadn't before: He was dead, the object of my schoolgirl desires, just as the schoolgirl who desired him was dead.

When we neglect our Bible study we often feel guilty. When you skip a meal do you feel guilty? No, you feel hungry. The Bible is food for our soul. When we fail to read it we should not feel guilty, we should feel hungry. Guilt is fueled by obligation hunger is fueled by desire.

Albert died in an unfortunate accident sometime ago and was raised as a zombie by his amateur necromancer friend, Neil. Bubba was a new friend we had acquired in Vegas when helping him gain back the freedom he had previously gambled away. The fourth member of our group, a government agent and my girlfriend named Krystal, was out of town for work this week, thus I was conducting my first weekly scrabble tournament with just the three of us. Which leaves only me to be accounted for in the explanation. My name. which I hope you know by now. is Frederick Frankford Fletcher and I am a vampire, though still not the type that inspires swooning or terror.

You__e a good man who happens to be a vampire. We aren__ human, but that doesn__ make us monsters.

These days he was like a zombie, all grim business, just another jerk with an erection.

The only thing that will ever be real, is this moment,' I turned to the statue, 'when you made me feel alive, when you made me feel real, when I felt like you really love me. Now? I'm just your monster, Frankie. I will always be a monster.

This was a normal town once, and we were normal people. Most of us worked at the plastics factory on the outskirts of town. Then one day there was an accident... something escaped from the factory, a yellow gas. It floated over the town so fast that we didn't see it, didn't realize... and then it was too late, and Dark Falls wasn't a normal town anymore.

I've never really had time for romantic relationships. I have much more important things to worry about, like saving the world from zombies.

The night was blustery and raw, with a chill wet wind blowing down the avenues, and when Rose and I met Françoise and her son and a friend at La Lorraine, a glittering brassiere not far from L'_toile, rain was descending from the heavens in torrents. Someone in the group, sensing my state of mind, apologized for the evil night, but I recall thinking that even if this were one of those warmly scented and passionate evenings for which Paris is celebrated I would respond like the zombie I had become. The weather of depression is unmodulated, its light a brownout.

When the black thing was at its worst, when the illicit cocktails and the ten-mile runs stopped working, I would feel numb as if dead to the world. I moved unconsciously, with heavy limbs, like a zombie from a horror film. I felt a pain so fierce and persistent deep inside me, I was tempted to take the chopping knife in the kitchen and cut the black thing out I would lie on my bed staring at the ceiling thinking about that knife and using all my limited powers of self-control to stop myself from going downstairs to get it.

We live, if we still do live, in a Sea of Chaos, out of which any fucking monster can evolve.

To me, the best zombie movies aren__ the splatter fests of gore and violence with goofy characters and tongue in cheek antics. Good zombie movies show us how messed up we are, they make us question our station in society_ and our society__ station in the world. They show us gore and violence and all that cool stuff too_ but there__ always an undercurrent of social commentary and thoughtfulness.

Jane woke, stretched, and decided to kill herself. If she hadn__ found a reason to live by the end of the day she would jump from the rig. It felt good to have a plan.