I'm a zombie, and it's not so bad. I'm learning to live with it. Oh, please mind the pun. I'm sorry I can't introduce myself but I don't have a name anymore. It's fairly common, hardly any of us do, we forget our names just like we once forgot anniversaries or PIN numbers. It's normal, or as normal as it can be. I think mine may have started with a 'G'. I'm not sure though, it's different every day. I try not to think about it mostly but then again it's funny in a way; back when I was alive I always forgot people's names. I guess you had to have known me for it to be funny but I hope the irony is not lost upon you. Irony abounds in the zombie life you see, like an ever-present punch line. If you can't smile you cry, wasn't that an old saying? Well either way, I can't smile anymore, or cry.

Before I became a zombie, I think I may have been a businessman or a young professional of some kind. I probably worked in some stifling office or metallic high-rise somewhere. The clothes clinging to the fetid remains of my body are high-quality business casual; fine gabardine trousers, a silvery silk shirt and a red Armani tie. I would actually look pretty smart if my intestines weren't dragging at my feet. I hope I was not some evil capitalist bastard and my employees or colleagues liked me, I hope I was invited down the pub after work on Friday and I hope I had friends, lots of friends. I don't even know what a capitalist is anymore, or a bastard. I don't even remember what going out is like or getting drunk. I don't even know what having a friend means anymore. The longer I'm spending dead the more and more I forget what living was like, what feeling the wind on my face meant. Sometimes I dimly remember, sometimes the thoughts just appear suddenly in my mind, only ever staying in my conscious briefly before fleeing back to the backward depths my psyche, lurking below the surface close enough to be seen fleetingly yet always too far for me to control them.

However much of a capitalist or a bastard I was, I know that I was successful. We sometimes like to joke and speculate about our remaining outfits, since these final fashion choices are usually the only indication of who we were or what we were like when we were alive. Back when we were somebody with feelings and not just a reanimated pile of rotting flesh. Of course it's only a bit of small talk, some people have no idea and their clothes are just as much of an enigma as their own memories. A shirt and trousers, a tank-top and shorts, we can only guess.

You were a plumber. Barrister. Judge. Teacher. Ring any bells?
It never does. Nobody I know has any specific memories anymore. We remember some things - buildings, cars, Armani ties - but the context of the item always eludes us. Our whole decaying mindset is unfortunately quite simple, we are here. We do what we do. We lack excellent direction, (it's hard to walk after rigour mortis has set in) yet we can communicate. We grunt and groan and sometimes if we're lucky a few words slip out. In a way it's not too different from before we died. The communication is good though, it appeals to our residual humanness. We like to stay in groups, at the moment there are a few hundred of us living in a wide dust-plain outside a moderately sized city. We just sway there, not needing shelter or warmth, obviously. We stand around here in this dry bowl of sand and time passes. I think we've been here for a long time. Despite the dragging entrails or minor decomposition, I am in the earlier stages of decay. There are a few elderly ones though, reduced by flies and bacteria to mere skeletons held together by tattered muscles. Somehow they can still move, their cracked bones extending and creakily shambling along. I've never seen anyone 'die' of old age, maybe we live forever, I don't know. I don't think much about the future anymore. I don't have to think about the future anymore. That's something pleasantly different. Death, I suppose, has relaxed me.

But it does make me sad how we've forgotten our names. Out of everything in this sorry affair it seems the most tragic. I don't miss my own but I mourn everyone else's, because I want to love them and know them but I can't and can never know who they are. Every now and then we go into the city to try and find food. There is no focussed effort to it, one of our group gets hungry and begins to shuffle towards town. A few of us follow him and a few more follow us until we are all shuffling towards the still smoking city. There are no clear objectives, we get hungry and we shuffle. I suppose we have to otherwise we would just be standing here, rotting in the burning sun. We don't go often though; the majority of our time is spent standing and waiting for days and weeks. I wonder how old I am.

The city where the people are hiding is not far away, you can sense the living flesh in your being when you arrive. It's a strange feeling, this 'new' hunger. It doesn't come from our stomachs, most of us don't have those anymore but we feel the need for flesh in our very being. We pursue it mechanically, our bodies moving independent of thought. I suppose the world has mostly ended, the cities we wander through are as decomposed as ourselves. Buildings are crumbling and collapsed, rusting hulks of cars litter the streets and grass and plants crack through the pavement, reclaiming the city for nature. Everywhere is shattered. I don't know how this happened, war, plague or maybe even us. Probably all three. I don't know. I don't like to think about those sorts of things. In a cluster of apartment buildings we find some people and eat them. Some have weapons and as usual we lose some of our number but don't care. Why should we? What is death now?

Eating is not a pleasant business. I stumble over to a cowering man and begin to bite chunks of flesh out of his arm. I hate this, it disgusts me. I hate his screams and I hate his pain. I hate what I've become. I don't like hurting people but in this world this is what happens, I can't help it. Maybe if I don't eat much of him, maybe if I leave enough, he will rise again and come and join us in the dust-field. That would make me feel better, introducing him to our group and we would be able to talk to him and find out so much about him. I don't know what being a friend means, but I am sure we would be close. If I don't eat him all, if I leave enough...

But of course I don't leave enough. I eat his heart, his lungs and finally his brain. That's the important thing, that's what makes our miserable existence worth even one iota. It's the organ which, when I eat it, it makes my head light up with feelings and emotions, memories of the wind, the sunrise and the sunset. I get the taste of wonderful meals and smell perfume and hear beautiful music. After about ten seconds, depending on the person, it fades. After it fades I ignore the others and their feasting and stumble away, back to the dust-fields. I'm still dead, but feeling a little less so. I don't understand why I have to eat people; I don't understand what chewing off a man's neck achieves. I don't digest the meat or absorb the nutrients as my stomach is simply a bag of dried, fetid bile. It doesn't do anything special; I just eat until the weight of it forces it out of me, collecting in my trousers. It is so useless and so pointless yet it keeps us walking. I don't know why, none of us really understand the way we are but they are probably like me, they don't want to find out. We avoid conversation about how we came about. The new ones sometimes talk about a global infection or some ancient curse yet they soon realise existential debate is not a welcome part of zombie life. We are here, we do what we do. That's nice sometimes.

Outside with the others in the dust field, I start walking in a circle for no conspicuous reason. I simply plant one foot in the dirt and pivot on it, walking around and around, kicking up clouds of dust. Before, when I was alive, I never would have been able to do this. I remember bills and deadlines, I remember Asset Retention Reports. I remember being occupied, trying to be everywhere and always all the time occupied. Now I'm just standing in a field of dust, walking in a circle. The breeze is blowing on my unfeeling face and there is a family of birds in a tree near me. A residual human part of me notices this and recognises it as beautiful. I pay no attention to the sub-conscious smile on my face and continue walking in the circle. The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy and I don't want to be human.

After a few days of this, I stop. There is no reason for me stopping just as there is no reason for me starting, I merely stop and stand, groaning slightly. I don't know why I groan, I'm not in pain, and I'm not sad or depressed. I think it must be the air being squeezed in and out of my lungs. When they decompose it will probably stop. So as I stand there, swaying and groaning. I notice a woman standing a few feet away from me, staring at the distant mountains. She does not sway or groan but stands completely still. I like that about her, the fact she does not sway or groan. I walk over near her and wheeze a kind of greeting and she responds with a lurch from her shoulder. I like her, she has not been dead for very long. Her skin is grey and her eyes are slightly sunken but she has no exposed bones. She is beautiful. I reach out and touch her hair and she makes no response. Her death outfit is a black skirt and a snug black button-up blouse. I suspect she was a waitress.

Pinned to her chest is a silver nametag. I can read it, she has a name.

Her name is Emily.

I point to her chest. Slowly, with great effort, I say, "Em...ily." The word rolls of my tongue like honey. What a good name, what a beautiful name. I feel warm saying it. Emily's eyes widen at the sound, and she smiles. I also smile but maybe a little nervous because my tibia snaps, and I fall backwards into the dust. Emily looks down at me and laughs; it's a choked, raw, lovely sound. She reaches down and helps me to my feet.

Emily and I have fallen in love. I'm not sure how this happened. I remember what love was like before; there were complex emotions and biological factors involved. Love was like a long checklist and an elaborate test which had to be passed. We looked at hair styles, job prospects and breast sizes. Sex was in there too, in everything, confusing everyone like some kind of insatiable thirst. It created longing, ambition and competition. It made people leave their homes and invent automobiles, spacecraft, electricity and fire when they could have just sat on the couch until they died. Animal cravings and subconscious urges. Sex made the world go 'round. This is all gone now. Sex, a force once as universal as gravity, is now irrelevant. Ambition and longing have all disappeared from the equation. My penis fell of several weeks ago.

So the equation is deleted, the blackboard erased, and things are completely different now. Our actions never have ulterior motives. We shuffle around in the sand and occasionally have grunting conversations with our peers. No one argues. There are no fights, ever. Love is not even a complicated process. I just see Emily and walk over to her and for no reason I decide I want to be with her for a very long time. Now we shuffle around in the dust together instead of alone. For whatever reason, we enjoy each other's company. When we go into town to eat people, we go at different times because it's unpleasant and disgusting and we don't want to share that. We share everything else though, and it's nice.

One day we decide to walk to the distant mountains. It's a long journey and takes us three days of solid trudging. I am slower than Emily because of my broken leg but she always walks by me at my speed. That is what love is, I think. Now we are standing on a cliff staring at the big fat moon. The sky in the distance is red and turbid from the burning cities but we don't care about that. I clumsily grab Emily's hand, and we stare at the moon. I don't know why I did it. I can't really feel her skin and I suppose she can't feel mine but we both appreciate the togetherness. The zombie life is very lonely you see, sometimes we band together in massive hordes but we are a horde of individuals. Emily and I manage to connect to some extent. We seek each other and long for each other's company like plants yearning for sunlight. I don't know why, I don't know much anymore. What I do know is that I love her and will stay with her as long as I can. The world has been distilled. Love has been distilled. We are here, we do what we do.

End.

You just lost the game.

Jeez, I'm kind of embarassed to say I watch and kind of enjoy this "show". For those of you who've never heard of the show, it's about this fucking hot azn girl named Tila who's bisexual, and she get's 15 carpet-licking dykes and 15 steroid pumped dudes to compete for her love.

The show started in mid 2007, with another season going on because the winner of the first season was a total douchebag off camera. Each episode, she sends the contested to do 1 - 2 challenges, the winner/winners usually getting a date with her. At the end of each episode, eliminations happen, starting with 6-10 in the first few episodes, then shrinking down to 2, usually a guy and a gal.

When there are only 4 people remaining, Tila visits their home towns and their families. Usually the families are understanding and kind to the slutty bisexual azn, but sometimes, they're all like "WTF U R SLUT PLOLOOLOFOFSHF46hfg". After that episode, only 2 remain, and whoever she chooses is lucky, because he/she gets to bang her.

But yeah, it's not a horrible show, definately not for the kiddies. Real good if you want to get a quick fap in, as each episode usually contains some girl on girl.

Hello, I'm here, I'm waiting.

Zen444, my main n****r.

HE PLAYS MAPLESTORY WITH ME AND EVERYTHING

WHICH ONE OF YOU FAGGOTS EVER PLAYED MAPLESTORY WITH ME!?

THAT'S RIGHT

Wednesday is my birthday. I demand presents.

GO.

Also, Pixies rule.

I'M THE GODDAMN BATMAN.

lolPM.

I'm gonna post hentai on my blog to get more attention.

Not.

'CAUSE AFTER THE BREAK I'M GOING TO RINSE MY ARM IN KEROSENE, LIGHT IT, THEN FIST-FUCK A GOAT.