On Sunday morning, I rolled out of bed and dragged my ass into the bathroom. My head hurt and I was dog tired. I walked with a slow gait from wearing heeled boots the evening before. As I made my way down the hall, dully moaning to myself, I realized that even though most of the zombie flesh paint and fake blood had rubbed off on the pillow case, I probably looked more like a zombie now than I had the night before for the Zombie Pub Crawl in Minneapolis. I undoubtedly felt more like one.
When I washed my hands after using the toilet, I looked at myself in the mirror and realized another interesting irony to the evening. Although I was tired, most of my own skin was now visible as opposed to being masked with applied scars and flaking skin. This is when I realized that for some folks this event might lead to one of the only times when the random bed fellow you took home with you actually looks better in the morning.
This was my first official zombie pub crawl, and I had an amazing time. As I recently perused some of the other comments on the official zpc facebook page, it seemed that not everyone had the same kind of fun I did. Folks were leaving posts bitching about the shuttles, bitching about the security, bitching about the cost, bitching about the entertainment, and everything else under the fucking sun. To this, I have to say: who invited all the whiny bitches? People – if you did not have fun, it is your own fucking fault. It is not the event organizer’s fault; it is not even DMX’s fault (expect a whole separate post about this). It is your fault for being an asshole. We are not threatened that you said you’re going to stay home next time. Please do. I could find a way to have fun in the middle of a cornfield. It’s all about how you choose to live your life, and your perspective clearly just sucks so shut the fuck up you douche-bags. Okay, that is all. Moving on …..
Is it weird that I thought some of the people I saw out on Saturday night were really fucking hot? That’s probably not right to think that someone is dead sexy (PUNS!) when they are covered in blood and their clothes are all tattered and torn. But, if we’re being honest here, which clearly I cannot help but do today, my inappropriate tendencies (aka – my “Bitch Tourette’s”) is the primary reason most of you all follow this blog. So, yeah, I felt myself a little bit turned on by all these blood-soaked bodies, but as you might imagine, I also had a lot of damn alcohol.
I was not, however, even remotely attracted to the completely random man wearing a long leather trench coat, who was not “zombified” (I am making this a word because I do what I want now) at all, walking down the street juggling glow sticks. That shit was straight creepy – far scarier than all the walking dead. When I saw my friend’s faces in response to this creepy mother fucker, I straight up lost my shit. I tried holding it in, but sometimes when I laugh real hard, a little bit of pee comes out. (I’ve had two children; I need to “sneeze and squeeze”; mothers, you know what I mean, right?) So, I tried stopping the leakage while I was laughing hysterically in the middle of the street. Some zombies on the sidewalk began screaming, “That girl’s shitting in the street! Look at her! She’s shitting in the street!”
Instead of getting embarrassed and trying to look real nondescript, I stood up and brazenly defended myself for everyone in a five to ten mile radius to hear, “Dude! I’m just pissing! I’m just pissing!” No big deal. The whole night was a lot like this – me being completely shameless. Later, I told DMX it was so not fucking cool of him to use the word “faggot.” I also straddled the intestines of Phil, the giant inflatable zombie and did a little pantomime like it was actually a giant something else. Shameless. But, if you’re going to act this way, what a better place to do it? Family reunion: not a good idea. Courtroom: also a bad idea. Funeral: Terrible, terrible idea. You’re going straight to hell. Pub Crawl: Who gives a shit? Go for it!
For today, the last thing I’m going to say is a message to one specific man I met Saturday night. So, to the short Asian man that gave me a great big bloody bear hug: It was fun at the time, but fuck you now. Did you have real fucking blood on you? What the hell? That shit straight stained my bra, and I own very few decent bras. Further, it stained right through to my skin, and took about twenty minutes to scrub off my rib cage in the morning. That was more work than cleaning period stains out of my panties. Not cool, dude, not cool.
Expect more on this event later in the week. Stay tuned by heading over to the sidebar and pressing that facebook “like” button. If you don’t, I will eat your bbbrrrraaaiiinnsss.