Years ago I became obsessed with reading paranormal romance and urban fantasy. I love the strong women who don’t take shit, but are comfortable with letting their man lead in the bedroom. Most of them are proficient at the art of kicking ass and find the most yummy alpha men ever. But the genres themselves have done things to me.
I randomly fixate on my appearance. I panic because I need to lose weight to avoid spending my undead years chunky. I look at my poor, raggedy feet, then the next time I’m at the store buy a pumice stone. Why? I can’t live forever with feet that need to be pedicured on a daily basis. Picture it with me. Waking up next to my alpha man and running my foot up his leg only to draw blood cause my feet were dry, sharp chunks of flesh. Then there is the obvious, ultimate gross out: hair. I need to shave my (fill in the blank) and shape my eyebrows or it could be quite a lonely future when you live forever and are a hot mess.
- Occasionally I consider the necessity of an apocalypse care kit. You know when the angels/zombies/shifters strike against humanity I will be a survivor. Maybe. I don’t know about living in a world that doesn’t have running water or television or Internet…But just in case I change my mind. I’d be sure to pack bottled water, lighters, matches, aerosol hairspray (instant flamethrower, duh!), a baseball bat and Hostess coffee cakes.
- Sometimes I wonder if holy water would work on paranormal creatures. Would it work even though I’m not Catholic? Would it work if I took it from a church since that’s basically stealing?
- Knowing when I die I will be cremated. Have no fear. This woman is not rising back up as a corpse.
- Is that cool area of the room the result of ghost? Is it a malevolent apparition? Are wererats in my house?
- Being thankful that my tubes are tied so I don’t end up like the dumb-ass Lori chick from The Walking Dead. You know, the lady who got pregnant and deserves to be eaten because she got pregnant while dodging zombies.