Entry 003:
There were a few days in there that I really thought my last adieu would truly be forever…The blizzard has since ceased its assault, but flurries still ride the wind. And somehow, these flurries are more foreboding in their silence. The heavy snowpack is growing deeper by the minute and the lightening of the overcast sky wants to make me believe brighter days might soon come. But I know better than to fall for this optical trickery of Mother Nature! It’s been my experience that such lulls in a storm are really just the beginning of something far more intense than anything the previous wave had to offer.
This is precisely why I went hunting yesterday. Not only did I bag myself a couple rabbits and a squirrel (all of which are hanging over the sink right now, their blood draining into pots and pans), but I also managed to amass a great heap of twigs, sticks, and heavier logs of fallen limbs (I use the word “log” loosely; they’re logs only in relation to the rest of my bounty of firewood). But the grandest prize of all was eliminating a hefty number of the ghouls which have been ever-so-slowly advancing upon my cabin.
During this most satisfying phase of my expedition, I couldn’t help but think back to all my experiments in the early days. My winter experiments have always stuck with me the most as that was the first time I saw the effect that freezing temperatures had on ghouls. Whether freshly turned or old and rotten, anything below forty degrees Fahrenheit greatly hindered the movements of ghouls. And freezing temperatures stopped them dead in their tracks. Well, mostly anyhow; they moved nearly as slow as a glacier and posed as much of a threat as well. (It made perfect sense, but I hadn’t known – or thought to know – my enemy in such a way as to think about disabling them with cold…such a thought never crossed my mind before my first true observation of this effect.)
But again: that is another story for another day…
Let me first continue where I left off three days prior…or was it five? I can’t quite remember exactly right now; time’s funny out here…
Daisy Jane Lawless…that’s right…
Quite an exquisite specimen of the female persuasion, she was. Not really my type with her corporate career and matching mindset. Plus, she was obviously high-maintenance with her long, bleach-blonde hair (pulled back at the time, but no roots to speak of), expensive manicure, designer jeans and handbag, and all the glittering rocks and gold of unfathomable expense that adorned multiple fingers, a wrist, both ears, and her neck (the ridiculously large heart-shaped diamond pendant – which was ringed with emeralds and amethysts – hung on its dainty gold chain and sat perfectly between her voluptuous breasts)…not to mention the gas-guzzling truck with its ridiculous lift-kit and more bells and whistles than a clown car. (Seriously; climbing up into it was almost like stepping into an alien spaceship.) But – damn! – was she exquisite!
And though she came across as high-maintenance (and she was – trust me), there was something about her that screamed badass bitch. I say that not offensively in the least; quite the opposite, in fact. Badass bitch is truly one of the best compliments one can bestow upon such a woman – any woman, in my opinion. Her body language and demeanor spoke of valuable life experiences and a deep wisdom. Though young (she was in her early thirties, if I remember correctly), she had gained success through hardships and never giving in; always striving to be better than the moment before. I later came to find out, after some long and late conversations, that she had grown up dirt poor in a little town about sixty miles southwest of Little Rock, Arkansas. Her parents never encouraged or helped her and she paid her own way through college (computer sciences and business administration – masters in both) by working odd hours as a horse-groomer and stable girl. And that’s where she met and married her late husband; he was the rancher’s son. They found their way to Washington in the summer of 2005 when she got hired on by Microsoft. (They moved away from the hustle and bustle of Seattle so she could telecommute and her husband could have his own ranch.)
My first night with her, she explained how her husband, Roger Lawless, went MIA when they were swarmed at the farmer’s market…which was shortly before Yours Truly climbed into her truck (and began judging her – quite superficially, I might add). What struck me as peculiar was how she explained this to me. It was natural to discuss the circumstances of how we came to be where we were upon meeting; I think we both teared up when I told her of how all my close friends died that day and there was little I could have done to save them, hesitation or no. (She assured me repeatedly that their deaths weren’t my fault and that I shouldn’t shoulder the burden of that false shame and guilt.) But when she told me of losing her husband in the bloody throng at the market, I’d swear that her eyes didn’t even gleam with water, let alone loose a tear. Nor did her countenance waver; her account of the events was stringent and straightforward without the slightest hint of sorrow or longing.
Without having pressed her on the matter (I kept my own counsel for fear of upsetting such a gracious hostess), one might assume that their marriage had turned sour for one or more reasons. Perhaps unpleasant affairs were occurring behind closed doors (or maybe clandestine affairs – of a more pleasant, albeit adulterous, nature – were happening behind different closed doors). I didn’t take her as the submissive type who would allow physical or emotional abuse, but maybe he was an abuser – or a user – or a cheater – or all of the above. Or maybe it was her that was the user or abuser or cheater (or whathaveyou). Hell, maybe their marriage was a sham from the beginning. One can never really know; especially having known her so briefly. But, having never pressed the matter (as I’ve already stated), I can still only speculate on her absence of sorrow or longing at their sudden separation.
But, that’s enough speculation on the matter for one day…
For being a corporate lackey, she sure was handy with home remedies and nursing. She force-fed me fluids and soup as though I were sick. But she also worked my neck and bruised appendages with medicinal salves (by which I mean ointments with the curative powers of cannabis) and lotion (also medicinal). I remember the feel of her skin as she pampered my broken body; so soft, so gentle. Although, she was definitely rough when the time was right; the sensation was splendid, even when it hurt. She also instructed me to clean up, insisting that doing so would greatly aid in my recovery. “Doctor’s orders,” she had said with a wink and a smile. “It’s well water,” she explained in her sexy, southern drawl. “No need to worry about contamination.” (Some of the news stations were alleging that the water of cities all over the Puget Sound had been contaminated.)
So I followed her “orders” and used the luxuriously large master bath to wash. The shower itself was the size of my entire bathroom back at college, and was equipped with not only two heads, but also a spout in the ceiling that rained heavier globules straight down. It even had a damn bench in it! I’d never before showered in such an overly extravagant facility. (And never again since leaving her expansive estate.)
I was standing there, all fresh and clean, just letting the water wash over me when she popped open the door and flung herself at me. I had a brief moment of panic (and slight embarrassment), thinking that maybe she was attacking me. But her soft, luscious lips locked with mine and her firm, full breasts pressed against me – and I realized she wasn’t trying to eat me alive…After this epiphany, I acquiesced to her aggressively startling lust and just let it happen.
That is all I can say on the matter…
Once we were through with this bout in the shower, she told me to draw a bath and relax some while she cleaned herself up. I did as she said, but only after fetching a joint from my jacket. I thought, at the time, that it might ease the pain of my great losses that day, if only marginally. But being high only intensified my emotions and made me edgy (if not a little paranoid, as well, which is definitely no bueno when zombies are on the loose). Guilt and grief began to swell exponentially, and the bathtub began to feel too small. I felt restless and angry; angry with myself and with the world at having driven me to such failures as those that cost my friends their lives.
I leaned forward to drain the tub and douse the roach, but Daisy Jane snatched it from my fingers before I could. Her hair was wrapped in a yellow towel and she was stark naked. She sat down at the tub’s edge and said to me, “I don’t remember the last time I smoked weed.” Like a novice, she daintily held the roach to her scrunched-up lips (even her eyes were scrunched-up in anticipation), and she pulled weakly off the dying ember of the roach. The following scene was quite comical (and I briefly forgot about my troubles and paranoia): her eyes got wide, her cheeks puffed up, and she began emitting some sort of high-pitched inward squall or squeaky groan. And what made it all the more comical to me was this freeze-framed expression and the yellow towel; in that moment, she could have been a cartoonist’s caricature of herself, displaying shock and awe (or utter, boiling fear) with hair standing on end.
I didn’t laugh, though I may have smirked.
And then she spat out the weak plume of smoke in a fit of coughs and spurs. “Holy shit,” she said. “That’s good shit.” But she wasn’t done just yet; oh no, she smoked some more right away (thankfully, with dramatically less coughing and sputtering). I politely refused to partake in the remainder of the roach.
This is precisely why I went hunting yesterday. Not only did I bag myself a couple rabbits and a squirrel (all of which are hanging over the sink right now, their blood draining into pots and pans), but I also managed to amass a great heap of twigs, sticks, and heavier logs of fallen limbs (I use the word “log” loosely; they’re logs only in relation to the rest of my bounty of firewood). But the grandest prize of all was eliminating a hefty number of the ghouls which have been ever-so-slowly advancing upon my cabin.
During this most satisfying phase of my expedition, I couldn’t help but think back to all my experiments in the early days. My winter experiments have always stuck with me the most as that was the first time I saw the effect that freezing temperatures had on ghouls. Whether freshly turned or old and rotten, anything below forty degrees Fahrenheit greatly hindered the movements of ghouls. And freezing temperatures stopped them dead in their tracks. Well, mostly anyhow; they moved nearly as slow as a glacier and posed as much of a threat as well. (It made perfect sense, but I hadn’t known – or thought to know – my enemy in such a way as to think about disabling them with cold…such a thought never crossed my mind before my first true observation of this effect.)
But again: that is another story for another day…
Let me first continue where I left off three days prior…or was it five? I can’t quite remember exactly right now; time’s funny out here…
Daisy Jane Lawless…that’s right…
Quite an exquisite specimen of the female persuasion, she was. Not really my type with her corporate career and matching mindset. Plus, she was obviously high-maintenance with her long, bleach-blonde hair (pulled back at the time, but no roots to speak of), expensive manicure, designer jeans and handbag, and all the glittering rocks and gold of unfathomable expense that adorned multiple fingers, a wrist, both ears, and her neck (the ridiculously large heart-shaped diamond pendant – which was ringed with emeralds and amethysts – hung on its dainty gold chain and sat perfectly between her voluptuous breasts)…not to mention the gas-guzzling truck with its ridiculous lift-kit and more bells and whistles than a clown car. (Seriously; climbing up into it was almost like stepping into an alien spaceship.) But – damn! – was she exquisite!
And though she came across as high-maintenance (and she was – trust me), there was something about her that screamed badass bitch. I say that not offensively in the least; quite the opposite, in fact. Badass bitch is truly one of the best compliments one can bestow upon such a woman – any woman, in my opinion. Her body language and demeanor spoke of valuable life experiences and a deep wisdom. Though young (she was in her early thirties, if I remember correctly), she had gained success through hardships and never giving in; always striving to be better than the moment before. I later came to find out, after some long and late conversations, that she had grown up dirt poor in a little town about sixty miles southwest of Little Rock, Arkansas. Her parents never encouraged or helped her and she paid her own way through college (computer sciences and business administration – masters in both) by working odd hours as a horse-groomer and stable girl. And that’s where she met and married her late husband; he was the rancher’s son. They found their way to Washington in the summer of 2005 when she got hired on by Microsoft. (They moved away from the hustle and bustle of Seattle so she could telecommute and her husband could have his own ranch.)
My first night with her, she explained how her husband, Roger Lawless, went MIA when they were swarmed at the farmer’s market…which was shortly before Yours Truly climbed into her truck (and began judging her – quite superficially, I might add). What struck me as peculiar was how she explained this to me. It was natural to discuss the circumstances of how we came to be where we were upon meeting; I think we both teared up when I told her of how all my close friends died that day and there was little I could have done to save them, hesitation or no. (She assured me repeatedly that their deaths weren’t my fault and that I shouldn’t shoulder the burden of that false shame and guilt.) But when she told me of losing her husband in the bloody throng at the market, I’d swear that her eyes didn’t even gleam with water, let alone loose a tear. Nor did her countenance waver; her account of the events was stringent and straightforward without the slightest hint of sorrow or longing.
Without having pressed her on the matter (I kept my own counsel for fear of upsetting such a gracious hostess), one might assume that their marriage had turned sour for one or more reasons. Perhaps unpleasant affairs were occurring behind closed doors (or maybe clandestine affairs – of a more pleasant, albeit adulterous, nature – were happening behind different closed doors). I didn’t take her as the submissive type who would allow physical or emotional abuse, but maybe he was an abuser – or a user – or a cheater – or all of the above. Or maybe it was her that was the user or abuser or cheater (or whathaveyou). Hell, maybe their marriage was a sham from the beginning. One can never really know; especially having known her so briefly. But, having never pressed the matter (as I’ve already stated), I can still only speculate on her absence of sorrow or longing at their sudden separation.
But, that’s enough speculation on the matter for one day…
For being a corporate lackey, she sure was handy with home remedies and nursing. She force-fed me fluids and soup as though I were sick. But she also worked my neck and bruised appendages with medicinal salves (by which I mean ointments with the curative powers of cannabis) and lotion (also medicinal). I remember the feel of her skin as she pampered my broken body; so soft, so gentle. Although, she was definitely rough when the time was right; the sensation was splendid, even when it hurt. She also instructed me to clean up, insisting that doing so would greatly aid in my recovery. “Doctor’s orders,” she had said with a wink and a smile. “It’s well water,” she explained in her sexy, southern drawl. “No need to worry about contamination.” (Some of the news stations were alleging that the water of cities all over the Puget Sound had been contaminated.)
So I followed her “orders” and used the luxuriously large master bath to wash. The shower itself was the size of my entire bathroom back at college, and was equipped with not only two heads, but also a spout in the ceiling that rained heavier globules straight down. It even had a damn bench in it! I’d never before showered in such an overly extravagant facility. (And never again since leaving her expansive estate.)
I was standing there, all fresh and clean, just letting the water wash over me when she popped open the door and flung herself at me. I had a brief moment of panic (and slight embarrassment), thinking that maybe she was attacking me. But her soft, luscious lips locked with mine and her firm, full breasts pressed against me – and I realized she wasn’t trying to eat me alive…After this epiphany, I acquiesced to her aggressively startling lust and just let it happen.
That is all I can say on the matter…
Once we were through with this bout in the shower, she told me to draw a bath and relax some while she cleaned herself up. I did as she said, but only after fetching a joint from my jacket. I thought, at the time, that it might ease the pain of my great losses that day, if only marginally. But being high only intensified my emotions and made me edgy (if not a little paranoid, as well, which is definitely no bueno when zombies are on the loose). Guilt and grief began to swell exponentially, and the bathtub began to feel too small. I felt restless and angry; angry with myself and with the world at having driven me to such failures as those that cost my friends their lives.
I leaned forward to drain the tub and douse the roach, but Daisy Jane snatched it from my fingers before I could. Her hair was wrapped in a yellow towel and she was stark naked. She sat down at the tub’s edge and said to me, “I don’t remember the last time I smoked weed.” Like a novice, she daintily held the roach to her scrunched-up lips (even her eyes were scrunched-up in anticipation), and she pulled weakly off the dying ember of the roach. The following scene was quite comical (and I briefly forgot about my troubles and paranoia): her eyes got wide, her cheeks puffed up, and she began emitting some sort of high-pitched inward squall or squeaky groan. And what made it all the more comical to me was this freeze-framed expression and the yellow towel; in that moment, she could have been a cartoonist’s caricature of herself, displaying shock and awe (or utter, boiling fear) with hair standing on end.
I didn’t laugh, though I may have smirked.
And then she spat out the weak plume of smoke in a fit of coughs and spurs. “Holy shit,” she said. “That’s good shit.” But she wasn’t done just yet; oh no, she smoked some more right away (thankfully, with dramatically less coughing and sputtering). I politely refused to partake in the remainder of the roach.
So that is all for now…I’m sure
you’re wondering (if you’re reading) what else we did (and how many times). But
I – just like the ghouls and the gators – must sometime eat. Though, unlike the
ghouls, I must sleep, as well. And so I’ll return to this narcissistic memoir
of mine in the next day or two. –Stay tuned!
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