Sean and I were watching one of our favorite movies last night, Shaun of the Dead, when I asked him to promise to chop my head if I ever get zombified. It’s just one of those things I’d like to know I’ve prepared for, in much the same way that I’ve made him promise never to leave me languishing in an iron lung for decades.
I’m not sure if they still use iron lungs, but ever since I read about some polio patient who lived inside one for like, a decade, I’ve had a dread of being stuck inside one. Ditto zombies, only not stuck inside one, of course, but rather eaten by a ravaging pack of them, which I suppose would eventually end up with me inside one, but not in quite the same way.
Sean instantly said he’d NEVER cut my head off, which I thought was very touching.
Instead, he said he’d chain me in the pool house with a stove and a well stocked pantry, in hopes my motor skill memories would kick in and I’d just start baking stuff out of force of habit. I told him that, in that case, I’d make damn sure to get bitten before him, so I could toss him to the first zombie horde I ran into and watch him get divvied up like chum at a shark feeding frenzy.