I don't know about you (ok, I do know about you; I know you enjoy the smell of coconut, love having your hair washed, and will always laugh at Young Frankenstein: yeah, I know you), but I'm not getting eaten.
You might dream of a day when the zombie menace is over, when you can get back to walking your dog at night or feasting on smoldering orange sunsets from the beach, but I know that's not happening.
I don't daydream. If I dream, it's of hot baths and ice cold beer. If I go outside, it's to syphon a few mouthfuls of gas from the bookmobile to heat some vittles, or to mend the study carrel barricade, or to serve an ex library patron who wandered back here looking to get on the Internet or check out the latest Will Farrell dvd: his tiny spark of memory telling him that Will was funny once and should be funny again or that he needs to delete all the spam before it takes over his Inbox. Whatever his reason, I have the business end of a shovel with his library card number on it.
And then I have something from 641.59763 that'll give just the right kick to that other other white meat. Don't you judge me.