So over the past six months or so, I’ve realized something about myself: I hate drama. Not drama in movies or books or anything like that, but real-life drama. The kind with gossiping, rumor-mongering, backstabbing, that sort of thing. Now, I’m not saying that I’ve experienced those things in the past six months, but there’s been, well, drama. And some serious real-life flouncing. (Aside: I didn’t actually think people could flounce in real life,
In the past, I have made a big deal about how in the post apocalypse, I WILL be a benevolent dictator in control of a large, well run compound. Some of you seem to seem to think I might be joking about this.
Oh, no, sugarbuns. I fully intend to be a dictator. I’m already spoiled, petty and quick to anger – dictatorship should be a cinch.
Thanksgiving is a tradition celebrated by many cultures around the world. The third Thursday in November is the one I’m most accustomed to here in America.
We thank the pilgrims and the settlers for braving the ocean and slaughtering the Native Americans so we could eventually build the shopping malls we camp out in front of the morning after so we can get the best sale prices.
We also thank the Native Americans for being so easily to betray and murder so we could feel bad enough about it to force our children to act out plays reminding us of that time we1 shouldn’t have done that thing.
Does anyone remember that show The Tribe about all the kids left over after a disease kills all the adults? They kids banded together in tribes based on their needs, interests, and location (e.g.: The Mall Rats). You could tell a lot about a person in that world based on how they looked and what they wore.
In the post-apocalypse you might want people to know who you’re allied with or where you’re from.
I know race relations (or the possible lack thereof) isn’t necessarily something people want to think about, let alone talk about. But. Race relations, racial tensions, and all that other fun stuff that happens now will still be happening after the apocalypse. And I think at some point, those tensions may even get worse.
Personally, I think things might go a little like this: In the beginning, immediately after the apocalypse, people will be so desperate and willing to survive that they’ll join a group–any group–to increase their chances of survival.
With Valentine’s Day being last week and my post about the Love Machine app going up last Wednesday, I’ve been thinking about love and romance and relationships and all that other sappy stuff. And seriously, it’s hard enough keeping up with the romance now, in the pre-apocalypse, when we still have Hallmark and Godiva chocolates for those moments when we screw up.
It’s going to be really hard in the post apocalypse,
Alright, so this is actually a post about us, because we are awesome.
In March, ICoS will have been going for a year. A year! In that year, I have got to know Tavia and Char quite well, and I tell you this: if these girls lived in the UK I would move heaven and earth to ensure they were on my post-apocalypse team. Why? I’ll tell you why.
Coming off the Christmas holidays, my older daughter’s school has a few random days off in January. My younger daughter gets to stay home those days, and I unfortunately get no work done. (Unless I want to work at midnight, which I usually have to do in order to meet my deadlines. Yay.)
Those are also the days when I have to come up with new and creative ways to entertain my daughters.
Crossed is a graphic novel written by Garth Ennis, drawn by Jacen Burrows, and published via Avatar Press. The story is set in a world where suddenly there are people who “stop being nice, and start being real.” Unfortunately, “real” in this scenario is bloodthirsty, rape-crazy, and straight up ultra-violent.
“Crossed” is how the infected in this universe are described because they develop a cross-like rash across their faces.
Post Apocalyptic living is going to be tough. Really, really tough.
I can hear you, over there, rolling your eyes, doing that irritating ‘blahblahblah’ thing while pretending your hand is a mouth. The last person who did that to me got a fork in the hand, so stop it. You done? Good.
I KNOW I’ve said it before. I KNOW I keep going on about how back-breakingly, bone-achingly hard post apocalyptic living is going to be,
I’m not going to comment on the sanity (or lack thereof) of the Black Friday shopping madness, and I might be a relatively new resident of the U.S., but I think it’s pretty safe to say that the holiday shopping season has begun. (Typed as I sit at my computer, switching back and forth between this document and Amazon.com’s Cyber Monday Deals Week page. See? Even my Canadian self isn’t immune to the post-American Thanksgiving shopping hype.)
What does Black Friday have to do with the apocalypse?
In life, any life, before or after an apocalypse you meet all kinds of people. The thing with people is they tend to fall into categories. They don’t do it on purpose, in fact they don’t do it themselves, our minds do it to the people we meet. We categorize and stereotype for our safety and to save space in out brains for things like the lyrics to the Ninja Rap from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.