Sorry I’m late. I got stuck in hell. But I don’t wanna talk about that yet. I mean, I don’t know you at all, and there are some things you just don’t share with strangers.
“Hi. I’m Romero Russo.” Romero Russo
This is why I’m here.
Even living in a crapartment — if you can call it living — and working in a minimum wage, dead end job, I hate to complain. So why am I “blogging”? I don’t really know, except I really don’t have anybody to talk to about this stuff and this seems like I’m talking to somebody who knows how to listen. Nobody’s gonna interrupt or change the subject to something they wanna talk about — like their own life. Haha! Yeah, like counseling, but without paying a 150 bucks an hour and getting only 50 minutes.
Besides, maybe nobody else is even gonna read it. But maybe they will. Maybe they’ll tell their friends and I’ll end up trending more often than Donald Drumpf.
And maybe I’m just talkin’ to myself. But ya know — I don’t effin’ care.
It’s not like I’m saying my life is more interesting than yours. Hardly. I’m one of those people who puts on a solemn face and comes to your house — or wherever — to collect your dead loved ones and haul ’em down to the cremating company of their choice. Obviously, they don’t make the choice right then ’cause they’re dead. But sometime before that moment, they thought about being dead, and if they cared about what was gonna happen to their body or how it would affect their family, they made arrangements. If they didn’t care enough to plan ahead, then we might be the company of your choice. Especially if your loved one was not-so-loved, or money’s an issue, because our rates are the lowest around.
(Just so you know, it’s pretty obvious when a pickup is a not-so-loved one, but it doesn’t matter to me. I figure, hey, it’s cheaper than a funeral, and it puts food on my table with a lot less manual labor and stress than most people in my position have to deal with. So I shouldn’t complain.)
I’m not gonna go into details about my employer right now, because, you know, time is precious and all that.
Still, if I had the right kind of education, or thought I could pass a background check, I might be working at a morgue. You know, like in a hospital or for the city. They would pay better, there’d be a schedule, and I could take time off without losing money. Not sick time. Zombies don’t need sick time.
Crap. Work just texted. 3 car pile-up on the 5. Gotta go. I’ll blog you tomorrow. Yeah, I know it’ll be Sunday. What can I say? I’m a rebel. A rebel zombie.