This was the plan.
I was going to spend the previous long weekend lying in bed and enjoying the guilty brainless pleasures of a Zombie Moviefest. My playlist from the undead was all lined up: 28 Days Later, 28 Weeks Later, Planet Terror, I Am Legend, Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, Night of the Living Dead, Shaun of the Dead, and the Resident Evil trilogy.
But as the cliché goes, life imitates art. In my case, no sooner had I popped the first DVD into the player when some invisible virus seized my respiratory system. It swiftly transformed me into a sneezing, wheezing abomination draining brain fluids from his nasal cavities.
By dawn, I had become a shuffling, groaning pile of biohazardous waste.
"Diseased pariah" would have described me as well.
And so it was that I did spend the long weekend - and a good part of the succeeding week - in bed, as originally planned. But quarantined from humanity, watching my fellow infected onscreen inflicting viral plague upon living tissue, as I, for my part, infected tissue, hankie, undershirt, pillowcase, and bedsheet with my radioactive green contagion.
I hate it when life mutates plans into zombies.
