Chelsey's guide to surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

Step 1: Go to your medicine cabinet.
Step 2: Take all the pills you can find.
Step 3: Chase the pills with a bottle of vodka.
Step 4: Have a nap.


Oops, did I say survival?


Everyone likes to think that if shit goes down and all of a sudden people start eating each other, they would have everything under control. I, on the other hand, have absolutely no problem admitting the fact that I would be completely fucking useless.

I used to sleep over at my dad's house on a regular basis. I didn't have my own room, or even a bed for that matter (does this really surprise you?) so I slept on an air mattress behind the couch. It's 1996 and my dad is rocking this insanely cool new game system called PlayStation. I was a bit of a skeptic, considering the Sega Genesis was now bundled up and put away. I just wanted to play me some Wonder Boy, or maybe Pitfall. That was such a good game except for all of those pits you could fall in. But I figured it was worth a try.

I had to hand it to Pops, ask him to pick out some cool games, and he will deliver. The always classic Crash Bandicoot, Nascar (we used to stay up all night and do about 300 laps. He would be beating me for 299 laps when I would come up behind him like a sneaky snake, and SMASH him into the grass. I'm so good at that game.), South Park: Chef's Love Shack (it was a trivia game where 7 out of the 10 answers was Leonard Maltin. Who the fuck is Leonard Maltin.) and this one that looked pretty cool called Resident Evil.

At this point in my life, I was as scared of zombies as any average Joe, in an "Ah, you're eating my skin" kind of way. That's going to ruin anyone's day. At the very least, their morning.

Let me tell you about my dad. He likes to have himself some drinks, smoke some ganj and play video games until the wee hours of the morning. Yes, that's right, he's pretty much the coolest dad in the world. (My dad could beat up your dad. Okay, maybe he couldn't beat him up, but he's really good at lighting a bag of dog shit on fire. MARTIN RULES!)

So, while Daddio discovered the joy of Resident Evil, I discovered my crippling fear of zombies. Trust when I say, when I'm scared of something, I don't half ass it. I put every ounce of energy I can muster into being absolutely petrified. So, the further and further my dad delved into Resident Evil, the more skiddish and paranoid I became. I ran every where I went, even in broad daylight. I'd open my eyes while washing my face to catch a glimpse in the mirror to assure myself that there were no zombies standing behind me. I didn't even really mind the soap scalding my eyes. My showers were short, my lights stayed on, and my head was pretty much on a swivel.

I realize you all must think that I'm the biggest pussy you know. I am not about to deny this. Not for a second. But I dare you to put yourself in my shoes, and see how well developed you are after listening to the grunting of zombies until 4 in the morning, every morning, until he beat the game. I swear, that shit is tattooed on my brain.


Think fast - A zombie breaks through your door right now.

What do you do? Find a weapon.

What do I do? Throw up.

What is your weapon? A baseball bat or a golf club.

What is my weapon? Nothing, cause I haven't found one yet. While panicking, crying and running in circles, I finally find a weapon. It's a Swiffer mop.

What do you do with the weapon? Try to kill the zombie.

What do I do with the weapon? Throw it at them and cry.


I strongly suggest that if a zombie outbreak is to ever occur, steer clear of this gal. That is, unless you would like someone to slow you down, lay on the floor and cry, throw up all over everything and eventually be the down fall of your entire group. But don't worry! I'll be fine. You have your plan, I have mine. Yours involves shooting zombies, mine involves shooting myself. Yours involves blunt objects to the head. Mine also involves blunt objects to the head. My own head. And when all else fails, I plan to repeat steps 1 through 4 as needed.