Living in New York has taught me the value of my own time. Other cultures (European, Californian, etc.) have often critiqued New Yorkers for "always being in a rush." Some have said that New Yorkers speed walk through their lives. However, I just see that as prioritizing efficiency, which is why I've always preferred receiving bad news first. If there's a problem that needs to be solved, I can figure it out during the time it takes for you to tell me the good news. My therapist says that this is a way to "postpone my own happiness" or whatever that's supposed to mean. I started seeing her as a way to help with my depression and anxiety. Being depressed can make getting out of bed feel like an insurmountable task. Putting on my bra can be as draining as trying to watch the first 2020 Presidential Debate sober. My mentally healthy roommates find it hard to understand why my room is perpetually in a state of disarray and my laundry bag overfloweth. However, I think it's even harder for them to understand why I'm still unemployed. I don't really get it myself, but I learned in college that the television industry is a little tricky to break into. When I graduated I assumed that it would take two, maybe three months to get a job but I quickly realized that I wouldn't be able to speed walk into a writer's room. Over the past six months of unemployment, my preference for hearing bad news first has developed into a need. Every new job posting is a vehicle for the waning hope I have for my career. Therefore, the sooner I get rejected the sooner I can get back to scouring jobs on Indeed and LinkedIn. The amount of time it takes for me to overcome disappointment is the same amount of time it takes for me to write another cover letter.

"Can I hold her?" The new father asked. He was so hesitant around the newborn. But this was his daughter. She was so small he was afraid he would break her. But he deaspretly wanted to hold her. A nurse gently deposited the child in his arms. His daughter curled up in his arms, asleep. He smiled, tears in his eyes.

3 years later his little girl was running around the house. The man had just gotten off of work. She jumped up into his arms, and the man laughed, pulling her close.

"Daddy, you can let go of me." The man smiled. "I'm going to hug you, and love you, and squeeze you, and call you Goerge. Hi Goerge" The girl laughed.

Jumping off the bus, into her father's arms the 5-year old smiled. Together they said. "I'm going to hug you, and love you, and squeeze you, and call you Goerge. HI GOERGE!"

The nurse shook her head sadly. The father looked helplessly at the young teen that was his daughter. The body, once so full of life, now lay dead on the cot. He looked at the nurse.

"Can I hold her?"

Dear Diary, 

You know that moment, when you're watching some kind of end-of-the-world, natural disaster, or alien war movie, and you low-key expect yourself to be among the survivors who live to fight another day. Or perhaps you imagine yourself to be the hero's side kick or confidant. Maybe you think your particular set of skills would make you invaluable to the protagonist's save-the-world gang. Either way, you expect yourself to be among those living, those who survived through hell and came out with a story to tell. 

At least, that's what I always imagined for myself. I'm not the only one, right?.....

Unfortunately, it appears as though this will be my last diary entry. It seems as though, once again, reality stabs me in the back. 

Today was mostly normal. Nothing out of the ordinary happened until I was on the subway back home after work. As always, the train was crammed with people and carbon dioxide. I usually don't notice other passengers, but I today did.This guy, siting a couple seats from me, was shaking real bad and wouldn't stop coughing. His hood was up so I didn't get a really good look at him, but I could tell he looked scary pale and was nursing his left arm. 

Busting out the hand sanitizer, I patted myself on the back for the artful killing of germs as I rubbed my hands clean. The CDC has, after all, been all over the news, warning against some new super bug, pathogen thing- I wasn't really paying attention, oops. 

Suddenly, the guy I eyeing stands up. Then randomly, he starts biting people?!! Blood covers his lips and teeth. That's when everyone started freaking out. Two other men start biting the other passengers soon after as well. Some old lady, a real nasty person in my humble opinion, shoved me back toward the biting psychos as the doors opened to the station. She ran out screaming with everyone else. I felt a suddenly crunch on my shoulder as I shoved my way out.

I bolted up the stairs and out of the station. I made it half way down the street before I realized my shoulder was bleeding and the street was in chaos. Everyone was screaming and running around. 

I thought the world lost its mind. Then I saw a pale man, heaving over with coughs, get hit by a speeding car. He laid there for a second, then got up, like nothing happened, and start eating other people. That is when I lost my mind and ran home. 

I checked before I started writing, and yes, my should has one big bit mark. I tried calling the police and my family but none of the phones seem to work. The radio and T.V are transmitting some sort of emergency message. Its not really comforting.

I can't stop coughing up blood either. So I guess I'm doomed to turn into, what? A zombie? A flesh eating zombie??

Its not like anyone's gonna read this, but if you are, I want you to know that I am hella pissed right now. 

I literally couldn't survive Day One of the zombie apocalypse. 

Exceptions suck.  

Sincerely,

The Fool Who Got Bit By a Zombie