the so-called lucky survivor's lament

It’s been five – no, wait. It’s been seven – Has it really been a week? Only a week? More than a week? You know what? Fuck it. It doesn’t matter. Time doesn’t mean anything, anymore. It’s not like I have to know when American Fucking Idol is going to start. Ever again.

It doesn’t matter exactly when or exactly how the fucking world ended. What matters is that it happened fast, and it didn’t have the good sense to take me with it.

These fucking people here, they keep saying how grateful we should be that we’re alive, and how we all have to work together to get through this.

“Get through this?” Really? I’m sorry, but am I the only one here who sees that it’s the goddamn fucking zombie apocalypse outside?

When I was 9 I saw this movie about the people who survived a nuclear war. The attack was cool, but the rest of the movie? The whole Day After stuff? Boring.

It was also pretty goddamn accurate. If the world is going to end, you want to end with it. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.

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