Stupid turkey had the last laugh. Shelly and I suffered from food poisoning for two days after Thanksgiving.
I was so stoked over our success. Almost like a miracle, it seemed as though God had smiled on us and offered up the bird as a peace offering. Like Lucy offering to hold the football for Charlie Brown, it seems he only wished to set us up.
Shelly says she’s over it, and she has taken to watching Doctor Strangelove over and over. I suppose I’m not able to cope with things as well as she is, so to deal with my depression, I’ve returned to writing my novel. Why, you ask, am I writing something that no one will ever read? The truth is, had the world not ended, it’s just as likely no one would read it. But what the hell, I’ve got nothing better to do with my time. Besides, writing about zombies is so much better than actually living among them.