Shaving the Zombie

I think I made the correct choice. The two night’s of lost sleep I wrote about earlier may have paid off. For two nights I wondered if I should shave my mustache and I concluded to do it. It is a done deed. My crumb and snot catcher for several years is no more. No, I don’t look any better and it not being there doesn’t make me feel any better. What is better is that I am over a wishy-washy period of my life; no more Charlie Brown for me. Now, I look for other places to shave.

… ——— …

I sat down to have a conversation with a zombie and first thing that happened was he stuck out his forefinger to make a point and the damn thing fell off. Awkward. I’d never interacted with a zombie before and all I could do was drop my jaw and stare for a moment while the scene registered in my mind. He looked at the stub on his hand then at me and seemed as incredulous as was I. The digit landed tightly against the side of his shoe as if it were trying to blend in. I quickly turned my head, trying to think of how I should react. When I looked back he was carefully placing the wayward finger in the breast pocket of his soiled suit. He apologized and I nodded and said no harm and that I hoped he could fix it. Anyway, it was good enough reason to end our palaver before it got started. We said our see you later’s and he went on his way and I continued my porch sitting, pondering what I just encountered. I concluded the world is a much different place than what most of us think it is or want it to be and we can either adapt (evolve) or die ignorant. I don’t think I want to be a zombie, though.