It’s warm, soft, and incredibly nasty. No, it isn’t steamy shenanigans during the zombie apocalypse, but food in Hayward. It was supposed to be a hot lunch, but I’ll never look at Italian sausages the same way again.
Who on earth puts an entire sandwich in the microwave till the meat is cooked?
Then wraps it in plastic?
You know, getting your wrong on with the living dead might be better than this. Two hours out of San Francisco the wasteland starts. No wonder zombies eat human flesh; in this part of the world it is very well marbled, and pleasingly spongy.
The addition of mushrooms was a note of insanity, there are black lumps oozing out.
The slimy French roll has no traction, and the whole darn thing is falling apart.
Got home too late last night to eat dinner, and left too early this morning to have breakfast. Only five hours sleep, and jangly on caffeine. Low blood-sugar, starving.
In case you were wondering why I’m eating this.
Alone in the office.
It’s actually kind of pleasant pretending to be a zombie devouring his victim here right now. Stumble about making moaning noises, holding out my arms like a tyrannosaurus while crashing into things.
Sing a happy zombie song.
It’s all vowels.
Do not trust people in the suburbs with Italian sausage.
It’s a massacre. I cannot finish this.
Unfortunately it is way too early to attack that bottle of bourbon in the office supply cabinet. Civilized people do not drink till evening.
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