Why ex-girlfriends are zombie pets

Think back to when you were around 8 years old, and you saw a puppy in the store that you were dying to take home. Or when your parents came home with a kitten that you’d play around with, or a goldfish you won.

Regardless what it was, when you finally got that pet home, you took care of it, you fed it, maybe you walked it, or pretended to pick up its shit off the neighbor’s yard but actually just reached down and grabbed some grass next to that steaming coil so your neighbor didn’t bitch at you.

Point is, you bonded with the stupid thing, and you felt like you had a friend even though it likely saw you as not much more than the kid who occasionally gave it food and yelled at it for trying to fuck your leg.

Fast forward 5 to 10 years and you’ve taken that pet for granted and have moved on to bigger and better things, like tits.

So you see a chick at school and you want to take her home. Or your friend comes over your house with a few that you want to play around with, or you got partnered up with one for some school assignment or some shit. I don’t know the exact details, high school was a long time ago and it’s tough to remember much from that era aside from the untimely school bus erections and all-night masturbation marathons.

Anyways, the pattern kind of played out the same way. You found a girl you like and that you somehow fooled into thinking you were worth spending time with, and you felt some kind of bond, even though she likely saw you as not much more than the kid who occasionally gave her food and awkwardly tried to convince her to do something like what the dog used to freely volunteer. High school girls can really learn a lot from dogs in heat.

Here’s where it gets shitty, though. Pets eventually die, and relationships eventually end.

But first you have to go through that awkward period where you don’t really see the signs, but the shit is inevitable. You drag the stupid dog outside to run around when all it wants to do is lay down and fucking sleep in a puddle of its own warm piss. Or you neglect to acknowledge the 35 times you fought with this girl last week because you had a good couple of hours of silence with her today.

But the inevitable happens, the dog dies, the girl leaves, and you’re stuck going through the other grief stages, whatever they are.

You’re sad for a while, and finally you accept the fact that things aren’t going back to the way they were and you put all that behind you. You accept the way shit went down, maybe reminisce here and there, but for the most part you move on with your life.

But here’s the key difference in this analogy: occasionally, whether intentionally or unintentionally, you run into your exes here and there. On the other hand, when pets die, they have the common courtesy to STAY FUCKING DEAD.

You tend to try to remember the better times in both cases and attach some level of significance to them—maybe so that you don’t feel like hanging out with them was a complete waste of your time—but for the most part, you try to attach less and less significance to your life and hope that the memory of them eventually gives way to new life experiences.

The problem with this is, these girls still exist and even might pop up from time to time. And experiencing this can only be equated with seeing your long dead dog, unearthed, zombified, frothing at the mouth, and looking to bite your dick off.

Here’s what runs through your head after the initial moment of sheer terror

First is shock: Holy shit, what the fuck is that thing doing here?

Then, immediate flight kicks in: HOLY SHIT, turn around and go the fuck in the other direction

Maybe a second of pride: Fuck that. I don’t need to run away from anything. I’m not hiding from anybody

Then, immediate regret: You stupid asshole. Now you’re at the point of no return and it’ll notice you if you try to leave. Ok, don’t make eye contact, and pray to god that it just goes away on its own

First contact: Fuck, it saw me. Now what do I do? I can’t show fear or it’ll attack. I really want to keep my dick. Shit, I better acknowledge it.

Maybe even a half second of wistfulness: Wow, it actually looks a lot healthier in zombie form than in it did in its final days with me. It kinda looks like when I first took it home. I wonder if it’s living with anyone else and if they know that this thing is an unholy fucking zombie monster?

And back to terror: Goddammit I really want to get out of here.

It makes its initial move: Why is it inviting me over to pet it? Fuck that, it’s trying to dupe me. No way I’m trusting this fucking thing’s intentions.

So you engage it for just enough time to figure out a way to get the hell out of there without invoking its wrath. This is much harder than it sounds.

In the end, regardless of how everything went down, you realize that you’re not dealing with the same dog you once knew and loved, and that this thing is another animal altogether and that you ought to be a lot more careful in crossing its path from now on. And you regroup and thank Christ that you got out of there with your dick still in fine working order.