Binge Watching the Walking Dead is for Sissies
When zombie guts hit the fan,
you blame everyone but yourself.
Most of all you blame your parents,
because they started all this fucking mess.
You tell anyone who’ll listen.
You write nasty letters in red ink
to the New York Times.
You binge watch The Walking Dead
because that’s what you think the world’s coming to,
a walking, breathing embodiment of the apocalypse.
You watch and learn and train and dig your Rambo knife
out of the attic, making sure your fishing line and hook
that could barely snag a house fly is tucked away safe in the hilt.
In your darkest hour, you skip work to watch Daryl.
Daryl is the new Rambo. You admire his skill.
You smile when he crossbows some poor bitch
chewing off her own arm. You skip dinner to watch
this shit, skip going to the gym, walking the dog.
Soon people stop listening. Soon the dog dies.
Soon Daryl runs out of arrows.
No way. Daryl never runs out of arrows.
Daryl’s a Badass. Daryl is God.
You want to be like Daryl.
But you’re not. You’re alone.
You’ll always be alone,
because you can’t see in the dark,
or think in the dark.
Hell, you can’t even kill in the dark
without injuring your flakey ego.
Despite what you think,
the world doesn’t owe you a shoulder
to cry on, or a tissue to blow your pitiful nose.
