Re: Surviving a Zombie Attack

Remembering that I had previously decided to use the telephone for communication, I telephoned the Woman in Red, and found her Surprisingly Receptive.
I failed at my negotiations for a sunday date to go ice skating, but never teh less, we were actively engaged in conversation for an hour and forty minutes. I can barely wrap my mind around that. That was ACTIVE communication. She held me away from my computer for 9% of the day.
Forty minutes in, I gave her the opportunity to back out from what must surely be an obligatory phone call. "It's getting late, I'm sure you have a lot to do."
"A lot I should do yes, but very little that I actually WILL do."
So we kept talking. I like listening to her, she likes telling stories.

Regarding Zombies. The Woman in Red doesn't actually like Horror movies. Apparently they scare her. She was familar with the basics of the living dead, but was vague on the finer points of her preparedness and response plan. What follows is an overview of her response plan, inundated with unwelcome personal commentary.

With less than half a tank of Gas available at any time, her first goal is to save her loved ones. A sentimental move that will most likely get her killed, but understandable when the alternative is loneliness.
I don't actually handle loneliness very well, and I imagine if the certainty of a lifetime alone were left for me to face, I would seriously consider dropping myself 40 feet out of a tree, and onto a spear. But that's just me.
I Imagine that she could save two friends. No more. The rest of her loved ones have long since turned, and have only phantom memories of the love and humanity they once posessed. Imagine the Woman in Red, splattered of blood across her face (sexy!), needing to drive over the spine of her College Study buddy Samantha, as she pulls her broken body across the street. Samantha's legs had been crushed forty minutes prior, when she was tried to pull a truck driver from the cab of his rig, and eat him.
Her next stop would be a drive through the county library for an informative book on Sailing. Suprise suprise, there is no one at the library. I guess all the peopel who want to know things have the INTERNET. Tension would rise between The Woman in Red and her friends when their escape options are discussed. "We are going to sail away. In a boat. No, I don't have a boat. No, I don't know how to sail. But we'll deal with that when we come to it." Perhaps a bitter dispute will ensue, and just as her friends are about to mutiny against her rule, the zombies show up, and remind us all what it really is to love.
The trio will run back into the car, and in their panic, no better ideas will arise. They will drive straight on to the Harbor of Marina Del Rey.
Therein, she and her friends would beat a hasty flight. Out of the car, and into the harbor. Across the dock, and into a sail boat. One of them would die horribly, I'm sure. I won't tell you how, but there will be a lot of screams, and maybe squirting blood. It won't be pretty.
Maybe one of her friends survived. Maybe they are injured, and given enough time, may even turn. They sit in the corner, saying "Leave me on the dock. Please, leave me here." But she, (splattered with blood), will hoist the sail, (splattered with blood), and escape out to sea. Her friend will die before they reach the island, but won't turn. They will just sit in the corner of the boat, rockign with the waves, serving as a constant reminder that there is a lifetime of relationships that all ended overnight.
Her goal is one of California's Channel Islands, 70 miles due west. Largely unpopulated, and home to about a hundred square miles of natural growth, where she may be able to survive on her own for some time.
But probably not.

But as I was saying, 9% of my day on the phone with her. It may seem obvious, but I'm just going to say it because it's amazing to me. She had to Want to talk to me to do something like that.

It's pathetic that I spend so much time with my computer, but if you saw her... all her bright monitors. Her enormous speakers and her tiny fragile shell. She works so hard, she gets so hot. I take good care of her because she takes care of me. And all my precious, precious digital media.

But I digress.
I asked the woman in red if she'd seen my blog post. The one I put on my space. It was Ice Cream Has No Bones. I'd pasted it over there so she could read it. I thought it was funny. I thought it was worth sharing.
Apparently she, just like every other woman, is uncomfortable with the idea of people reading about her. Even if she isn't identified by name or picture, or description.

In difficult times, a man has to make difficult choices. He will write when he can, without too much concern for the subject of his attention. But when he knows a little more about a situation or a person, he has a choice.

I'm going to try to write less about the Woman in Red. She would want it that way.

She would want me to not have written anything about her to begin with, but it's a little late for that.