Since the beginning of this advice column dedicated to helping out those who are helplessly unable to find happiness, we have come to realize that we at Down The Highway have neglected a significant portion of our readership: the zombies.
Last Thursday, one avid zombie reader visited the DtH offices. Since his brains were already hanging out of his nose, we panicked. Shotguns, crucifixes and wooden stakes were produced and used on our hapless visitor. After a failed attempt to kill him (and losing two of our interns in the process), it was clear that it was just an unfortunate misunderstanding: he just wanted to pour his heart out over a lost love.
“You see, there was this girl, and she dumped me for a sparkly vampire…”
We learned an important lesson: zombies may look different, they may smell like five year-old rotting flesh, and yes they are indeed rotting (because you know, they’re kind of dead), but they have feelings like you and me. The next time you see a zombie, don’t run away; he may be after your brains, but chances are he’s after your heart as well. Don’t be racist. In fact, we’ll soon hire a zombie staffer (in the spirit of zombie-human solidarity) once we figure out how to keep him from attacking people during office hours.
And now we’re going to publish some of the zombie letters that we received over the years.
i dUnn0 hwat to do. yousee,, i kEEp oN eatiNg tHe brainS oUt of whoever i dAte. yEs, i know, we’re both undeAd and uNdead braiNs aRe kiNda iCky. bUt i cAnt hELp it. iTs, lieK, iNstinctuaL. so yOu see, moSt of mY datEs end up with hEr sCreaming, hOLdiNg her n0w-empty skULL in her arms (im so agressive I usUaLLy dEtAch her hEad).
I alSo eNd uP on the receiving eNd of verbal abuse liek, “ARE YOU CRAZY! WHY THE HELL ARE YOU EATING MY BRAINS?! DO I LOOK LIKE I’M ALIVE TO YOU? THAT’S IT, I’M GOING BACK TO MY GRAVE, YOU FREAK!” and if her mIddle fiNger oN eiThEr hAnd is sTiLL intact, I usually get a rUde gesture from my DaTe.
iT reaLLy hits me hArd. I even reAched thE poinT that when my aRms fall oFf, I forgEt to sCrew them bAck on. aM i reaLLy a freAk? hElp me out here, DtH.
~~ b R a i N L o v E r ~~
Dear ~~ b R a i N L o v E r ~~,
First off, you really need to take care of your arms. It’s going to be hard finding a spare part that fits, so if you lose a limb, chances are you’ll be without one forever. In the same vein, don’t be too frisky with the ladies. Nobody likes a surprise decapitation when they’re about to do the nasty.
Secondly, don’t be ashamed for your taste in undead brains. In fact, I applaud you for coming out. You have what we living things call a fetish. Much like diaper fetishism, there are communities for undead brain lovers. I wish I can provide you with links to a community forum, but it simply is not possible. The whole internet thing is new to your kind (also, applying for an ISP is out of the question; I can imagine you guys freaking out those cashiers at the AT&T office).
My point is, ask around. Don’t be ashamed to admit that you like undead brains. You are bound to find people who are into the same stuff as you are, and soon the two of you will be happily eating each other’s brains away.
Please don’t eat my brains,
Ever since I lost my husband during the Great Zombie Massacre of 1975 (his head was blown to bits by a freaked-out pastor) I have been aimlessly drifting in and out of depression. Five psychologists (two of them delicious, bless their souls) were not able to help me at all. Anti-depressants are of no help too, because they just keep on shooting out of my ribcage and into the ground. It got so bad that I even refused to get out of my grave for prolonged periods of time.
That was until I met Dan. I met him a couple of months ago on undead.craigslist.org and we totally hit it off. He was smart and funny, and knew how to hunt humans silently. And he was great in bed: he knew where to bite off the tiniest bits of my flesh, and he’s used my empty eye socket in ways I never thought possible.
So everything was going fine until last week when I decided to talk to him about the day I lost my husband. He says he remembers it clearly; he was still living then. After comparing notes, we realize – to our horror – that he was the one who killed my husband. And things started to go downhill. He hasn’t said a word other than “Brains” since that day, and he’s been distant. I know he’s being eaten by guilt and I want to reach out, but I honestly don’t know how. I find myself hating him for putting me through those decades of depression, even though I know he was just trying to not get eaten. Help me please.
Wow. That must’ve been awkward for you two, I suppose. Think of this as serendipity: all the chain of events that you two have gone through (your husband getting killed, him getting eaten by your friends in revenge) all lead up to this moment.
You two enjoy long walks in the graveyard. You enjoy stalking a human until he shits his pants in fear and just basically embrace the sweet embrace of death just to get you two off his back. The meaningful glances he throws at your empty, heavily-used eye socket as you feast on said human’s spleen. You enjoy all those right? It’s been a few decades since he killed your husband. In fact, if he did not do that, what could’ve set this chain of events that led to your amazingly happy two months?
I say reach out. It won’t be easy, but doable. Start of by offering him a morsel of brain whenever you catch him moping in one corner, and work from there. He’ll snap out of it soon, and I’m pretty sure you two will be back to your human-hunting ways in no time!
Lost? Need advice? Send me your emo letters by clicking here! Zombies and non-zombies welcome.
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