Written by: Hannah Davis
It’s been eight days since the zombie apocalypse. A small group of unlikely friends, including myself, are living in an abandoned weapons and survival gear factory, so we’ve been able to successfully fend off the zombie hordes outside, as well as reenact scenes from Saving Private Ryan.
The other day I met a really nice zombie named Benjamin, and I’ve been keeping him hidden in the rafters since then. He’s a really good guy, but the other survivors wouldn’t understand: they’re all “we must avoid getting The Infection” this and “Rebecca, we’re afraid you’re going to contaminate us all if you keep trying to touch the undead” that.
Needless to say, they don’t know about Benjamin, my rafter zombie boy, because they wouldn’t approve. It doesn’t matter though: I sneak up to see Benjamin when nobody’s looking and we make out. Maybe I will even give him my flower one day, but that’s a story for another time.
What I am really writing to tell you, diary, is that something amazing is happening. Ever since the zombie apocalypse, I’ve realized that all those Hollywood survival movies are really accurate. Take it from me, those characters on screen look exactly like actual apocalypse survivors.
I started to notice the changes slowly. On the first night of the apocalypse, I had run out of my house wearing pyjamas when an undead mob came through my neighbourhood one moment, and the next, I was suddenly in a completely new set of clothes. My flannel bottoms turned into heavily pocketed, durable cargo pants . . . my housecoat turned into a form-fitting black tank top and an army style jacket . . . strangest of all, I was suddenly equipped with a utility belt filled with pocket knives, can openers, and even some band-aids.
When I would get dirty pre-apocalypse, it would get everywhere: all over my face, my arms — wherever dirt could stick, it would be there. But now, I get this thing I like to refer to as dirt contour. It’s a phenomenon I mysteriously have no control over.
Whenever dirt gets on my face (and there is always dirt on my face, duh), it sticks only to the places that are most flattering. It smudges in the hollows of my cheeks and along the sides of my nose, acting as a sort of magical mucky bronzer. Similarly, sweat will only shine on my cheeks, the top of my lip, anywhere that will make me look glowy but not gross. Even the cuts on my face look nice. I got a scratch the other day, right along my cheekbone, but its placement absolutely complimented the shape of my face.
These last few days have been very weird, diary, and Benjamin is a very bad listener, so I am glad I have found a friend in you. I wish I could hear what you think about the fact that my hair never, ever gets greasy, and that my bra is more supportive and push-uppy than ever (which is especially great when I decide to run in slow motion). I feel like there is a Hollywood make-up artist watching over me . . . doing all they can so I do not look, gasp, unattractive.
Thanks for listening, diary. Until next time,