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Why I’ll Never Settle

I can never settle, I will never settle. I’ve had the best of the best and know what true love really is. I can never accept anything less, even if it means living alone for eternity—because in reality, I still have that love and always will.

It was 10 years ago today but it still feels like it was yesterday. That wrenching pain searing through my gut—it gripped my entire body and knocked me to my knees, begging for it to be a mistake, a lie, a sick twisted joke.

The phone call, the feeling that told me he was gone before I ever received the call. The dreams I had afterwards, the nightmares that woke me up at three in the morning screaming and sweating and begging for it to not be true.

I still wake up sometimes and forget for just one delicious minute. I wonder where I am and how I got here. I can still feel his touch and the butterflies I would get when he walked into the room. Being together was like the most amazing dream come true. I couldn’t believe I met someone so perfect, so on track with evolving the same way I wanted to, filled with the qualities that mattered most to me. It wasn’t perfect, nothing is—but it was as close to perfect as anything I’ve even dreamed about.

It was all about these specific moments. I always tried so hard to be good and do the right thing, but I had to break someone else’s heart to make our dreams come true. All it took was one split second to make the decision and go with him instead. I didn’t regret it then and never will. From then on, all there is to remember are the moments of elation, challenge and growth—and there were so many of them. I am so blessed to have had so many.

We were in London one night sitting on a rooftop, like we did in every city we visited and in every city we lived in. He told me to take a photograph in my mind and freeze that moment, to remember that perfection until the end of time. He did that always, reminded me to be present and savor each moment. Make time stand still, because life moved so fast—if we didn’t, we would lose it entirely. It would be gone forever.

It was exactly what he was doing in that one specific moment when his life was taken.

Why did he have to go when we still had so much to do together? Or were we already done? Why was I the one chosen to stay here and live through the aftermath? I can’t help but think what would have been if I’d been there, how different everyone’s lives would be. I would have three kids by now and I would love them so much. I would throw everything I had into making their lives so perfect. Maybe I would be a boring soccer mom instead of a crazy writer. Or maybe one specific moment would have destroyed our unjaded love in a way I could never have predicted. Maybe I’d be selling oranges by the freeway and wondering how I got there. Instead I am right here in this specific moment—and I’m okay.

It was the worst suffering of all, but once I let go of that, I realized nothing can ever take away that love. It’s still there, whether he’s here or not. I will always feel it. And now I refuse to settle for mediocrity or be afraid to experience those beautiful, specific moments that make life so amazing.

But I won’t lie—I still fall to my knees and beg for it to not be true.

Cookies, a fat sack and the ladder to hell

How I got over it

I decided to get really real for this post and not focus on the things I get paid to write about, like my beloved little zombie friends and apocalypse beauty tips. I think it’s an important part of the purging process, especially when you keep things inside for a long time. We all know breakups suck, especially when they drag on and on, or if you’re part of one of those on-again/off-again roller coaster rides that are so satisfying yet, at the same time, gut-wrenching and bloody.

When the ex-love-of-my-life called to say he missed me and was thinking about me, I was a little surprised. I received that same phone call from him many times in the past, but this time, he’d just gotten married—the weekend before. Did I mention our last attempt at a go-around was just six months prior? And that the grand finale absolutely shredded my heart? While my husband calling an ex wouldn’t be my ideal scenario for the first week of marriage, I won’t give in to speculating about whether his is a happy marriage or a sham. I sincerely want him to be super happy and live an amazing life.

Truth be told—up until this phone call, I really thought I was over it. But there are always those vestiges that linger, even when you move on and are with someone else who’s better for you. I don’t think that’s a bad thing really; when you truly love and care about someone, you’re always going to have traces of feelings for them. That’s what love is. But even though my life is amazing and phenomenal, it still felt like someone dropkicked me in the stomach while wearing cinder blocks for shoes.

This time, I concocted the most amazing formula to get over it. While I did, of course, indulge in the cliche marathon phone call to my best friend, I’m not trying to spend weeks reading self-help books and hitting psychoanalysis, so I figured out my own decadent approach for cheering myself up. Read on.

  1. I baked myself cookies. I never just bake for myself, so this time I made my favorites—classic chocolate chip cookies and red velvet cupcakes—and had them for dinner. And breakfast.
  2. I bought myself a sick pair of Jimmy Choos, an equally sick pair of jeans, a hot minidress and a fat sack of weed. Not in that order, but all within a 24 hour period.
  3. I went for a run in nature. The canal by my house counts as nature, right? Anyway, I don’t run—I actually abhor it. And that’s the first time I’ve ever said, let alone written, the word “abhor.” While I hate running with a passion 364 days out of the year, when you want to zone way out and squeeze every last ounce of emotion out of your body, it really does the trick.
  4. I climbed the ladder to hell. Okay, not literally, but “Jacob’s Ladder,” this ominous treadmill-ish machine at my gym. You climb up it with both your hands and feet, and the faster you go, the more difficult it gets. I climbed that evil thing until I was seriously about to purge my cupcake breakfast all over my fellow gym rats. I had to go sit in my car for like 10 minutes afterwards, but it still felt amazing.
  5. I had a dance party by myself. Not the usual stuff I would dance to in a bar, like hip hop or house, but old school punk rock that makes you want to thrash around and jump in a mosh pit. I fell into bed exhausted after this step—it may even be a better workout than Jacob’s Ladder.

Don’t be sad because it ended—be happy because it happened.
Dr. Seuss



Apocalypse beauty tips

beauty tips for an apocalypse worldLet’s say the world as we know it is over. We no longer have our Maseratis, beach condos and yachts and we’re living the life of a piranha. One day you’re chilling with your man and he pisses you off, so you behead him with a machete and cook him for dinner. You were comfortable and secure since you had a partner by your side, so looks weren’t a priority. Now you’re single and ready to mingle, but instead of looking like the perfect girl, you look like Chewbacca. How’s a girl gonna get her swerve back on?

Something they definitely don’t talk about in post apocalyptic books is how to keep your looks once that world-ending catastrophic event hits. We all know that when we look good, we feel good. But with very few tools and little to no luxuries, how can someone make the most of their natural assets?

Let’s start with our crowning glory—there’ll be no flatirons, blow dryers or styling aids. If you’re not down to chop it all off, I suggest stockpiling baby powder for a little double duty as dry shampoo and deodorizer. Obviously, you’ll jump in any non-radioactive body of water you find, and learn how to finger style your hair. You can work the Heidi look with some cute, funky braids—guys loves them. After a few days, when you’re ready for a new look, take them out and get your afro on—the smaller the braids, the tighter the waves. When it needs conditioning, throw whatever oil you can get your hands on or egg whites if there is a surplus.

Skincare—you won’t be winning any post-apocalyptic pageants when you smell like poo and are covered in acne. You’re going to have to get real old school and make your own soap. They made soap back in Babylon, so it’s got to be easy to do. The Celts made soap from animal fat, ash and plant stuff, and the Romans used olive oil. The next time you slaughter your dinner, make sure to boil off some of the fat, mix it with ash from the fire, throw any herbs you can get your hands on for little scent and you’re good to go. For moisturizer, mix a little water with animal lard from your beastly meal, apply it to your face at night and your skin will be smooth as a baby’s bum by morning.

Makeup—Minimal is really the way to go, but if you need a little glamour in the post-apocalypse world, there are a few things you can do to maximize your natural beauty. Get your Cleopatra on with a little charcoal mixed with candle wax (or beeswax if that’s all you can find) for makeshift eyeliner. If you’re near an ocean, search for a jellyfish. Their venom makes a great lip plumper.

Nails—I hate to break it to you, but you’ll have to cut those babies all the way down. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a pair of clippers and a nail file. It’s not even remotely realistic to think that we can have have pretty nails—moderately well-kempt is the best we can hope for. You never hear about humans fighting off zombies with talon-like gel nails.

Bottom line—If you ever find yourself on a solo mission post-apocalypse, let’s hope you’ve got a really great personality and a nice smile.


Fully Infected—My Zombie Makeover

Long before the days of The Walking Dead, I went through a hardcore transformation—a legit zombie makeover that spanned several weeks. Repulsive, jagged fangs and eerie glow-in-the-dark contacts coupled with blood-drenched hair and chunky prosthetic guts that took hours to remove. There’s nothing else like it.

It was funny to see my friends squirm when they first saw me—even my boyfriend couldn’t look me in the eye. I wondered if he’d get past it once I scoured the zombie-ness off. Was he traumatized by coming face to face with my hideous inner demon? Would he be plagued with nightmares of me dismembering him in his sleep? Whatever—he was going to have to suck it up. People who came to visit the set of The Convent could barely look at me during meals. Was it the blood caked onto my eyelashes that obliterated their appetite? Or did the fake guts dripping onto my chicken Shawarma nauseate them? I’ll tell you this—my gory appearance never stopped me from inhaling an ahi sandwich or drinking a chocolate milkshake. Being a zombie requires proper nutrition.

Transforming into a member of the undead is, bar none, an unparalleled experience. For me, it started with a torrential blood shower lasting so long that red corn syrup was embedded in my skin and my highlights turned pink for a couple of weeks. Getting showered with 500 gallons of recycled fake blood over and over again for the duration of 10 hours really puts you in a zombie state of mind.

Once my bloody death shower was over, it was time for the metamorphosis to begin. I sat in my throne of zombie genesis and waxed nostalgic about the days when my skin wasn’t inflamed from having prosthetic guts glued on and ripped off daily. Then randoms with dirty little fingers stuffed blinding, fluorescent contacts into my virgin eyes—is that what they call eyes that have never seen the likes of contacts?—and I was airbrushed with ghastly white skin and ugly blue veins.

I was now fully infected.

Once my zombie makeover was complete, the stunts began. Breaking through doors and tearing fake heads off bodies is awesome and intoxicating. A truly natural high. Growling and lunging at other actors was weird at first, but then some predilection took over and my inner zombie fully unleashed itself. I clawed my beautiful friend’s face off—no problem—and viciously shredded and devoured a hot boy’s abs. I split open the head of a close friend’s husband with a baseball bat, just months after serving as a bridesmaid in his wedding, and savagely brutalized anyone else who got in my way.

In reality, this metamorphosis was extremely cathartic and felt a lot more natural than it probably should have. It was an opportunity to be raw, primal and just a little bit cannibalistic. I could purge every shred of anger and stress and strip almost everything human from my conscience. It was pure and exhilarating, and at the same time, fully exhausting.

I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Hand-to-hand combat skills—a must for post-apocalypse b*tches

When the inevitable zombie apocalypse occurs, we’re going to need a lot more than some cans of pepper spray to defend ourselves. By now, you know that if a horde of flesh-hungry zombies is on your jock, you’ve gotta fire straight into their skull. But what if you’re running low on ammunition or your firearm jams? Or if the sound of your gun will attract more undead in your direction?

Even if you’re packing heat when the zombie takeover occurs, chances are there’ll be times that you’re going to have to go mano y mano with these brain-craving bastards. If you haven’t already started, it’s time to master the most harrowing battle style of all: hand-to-hand combat. While the odds are not really in your favor, with a little training, some fierce stamina and superhuman strength, you may be able to flip the script on that rotting corpse in your face. Here are a few tips for improving your chances when you get up close and personal with a member of the undead.

Choose a badass weapon. The goal here is to incur massive head trauma or decapitation old school style—you must get the brains. The problem with kitchen knives or any blades that cut smoothly is that they can easily get stuck in the zombie’s rotting flesh. You want something that chops, like an axe, tomahawk or a Samurai Sword. Another good option is something with horsepower, like a chainsaw.

Be resourceful. Shovels, wrenches, hockey sticks, golf clubs and fire extinguishers are all excellent weapon choices when battling a zombie close range. If you’re really desperate, try bashing their brains in with a large can of food, or if there are any blunt objects lying around, force one straight through their forehead. The ideal makeshift weapon is an aluminum baseball bat—it’s sturdy, durable and makes a very satisfying noise when you a bash a zombie’s head in.

Avoid Hair Pulling. As hot as cat fights can get, attempting to pull a zombie’s hair will do little for your cause. We typically pull hair to cause pain, and since the undead feel none, it’s a pointless move. In addition, zombies are in a state of decay, so the most damage you’ll do is grab a handful of decomposing scalp. Skip the girly hair pull and go for a more drastic maneuver.

Get your mind right. While the natural reaction is to panic, you must instead focus on the task at hand and eliminate all fear from your mind—otherwise, you’re doomed. Try what the military calls “Tactical breathing.” Simply inhale through your nose for three seconds, hold your breath for another three, and then exhale for three. Controlled breathing calms your nerves and muscles, while decreasing your heart rate so you can face off from a place of zen.

Be prepared for the rot. Your first encounter with a walking, rotting cadaver will be one you never forget. Their disgusting stench, ghoulish appearance and the vile noises they make increases the upchuck factor tenfold. Whatever you do, do not let their appearance freak you out. Focus instead on the offensive and defensive strikes that you’re about to deliver.

Master some sick moves. Now is the time to get into optimal shape, build your stamina, and master the kind of killer techniques taught in martial arts and self-defense systems like Krav Maga. In the meantime, here are some basic moves that are easy to learn and can buy you enough time to escape with your brains intact.

1. Basic a$s kicking. If a zombie bum rushes you, simply lift your leg, with knees bent, and kick it in the ribs. If you’ve had some kickboxing training, now is a great time to employ the old Round House. If you can make it high enough, a solid kick to the jaw will stun the zombie and give you time to bust out the two in that one-two combination.

2. The Sweep and Stomp. If a zombie corners you, take advantage of his unwieldiness and lack of coordination. Grab it by the neck, hook one of your legs behind its opposite leg, and sweep your leg against its calf while slamming its neck, forcing its weight backward. Once the rotting one is on the ground, stomp on its skull forcefully. Hopefully, you’re rocking some sweet combat boots in anticipation of this very moment.

3. Swipe and Strike. This is a great move for stunning the undead so you can make your escape. Step back, raise your hands, and strike the zombie in the nose with the palm of your hand, turning your hips into the blow for added force.

Does anyone else have any tips to share?

To kill or not to kill—what if the one you love became a zombie?

The Walking Dead really gets me thinking. Last season, Rick had to kill the best friend he’d been through thick and thin with in order to survive. While his BFF was not yet a zombie, he was well on his way. This made me start to fantasize, and obviously not in a good way, about what I would do if my boyfriend became a zombie.

If I become a zombie in a post-apocalyptic world, I definitely want to be off-ed. Transforming into a mindless shell wandering the streets aimlessly, lusting after brains and uttering unintelligible gibberish is just a little too primal for me.

No matter how much you’ll miss someone, do you really want them to suffer that existence? That said, it’s probably gut-wrenching to be forced to kill your soulmate. You have to completely detach from this lackluster, undead version of your former flame—and fully accept that this undead creature is no longer that hottie with the six-pack abs. Once you fully comprehend this, it’s time to make a plan and execute it, no pun intended.

The solution is pretty straightforward. You must create the quickest, most efficient way to eradicate said zombie—there is definitely no room for mistakes here. The last thing you want to do is prolong your loved ones’ suffering. The most efficient method seems to be a gunshot through the head. Quick, simple, effective—the perfect combination. If you don’t have a gun handy, try chopping his head off with a machete. If you live in a weapons-free household, then an ice pick through the brain is a no-brainer.

If I wake up one day to a dirty zombie drooling all over my 1200 thread count sheets, of course, I’ll be devastated. Yet I’ll cast all anxiety aside and do what I need to do. I want to keep my brains intact, so it would be a simple matter of survival.

Let it be known—if there is a zombie apocalypse and I become a brainless gut-muncher, you have my permission to kill me.

Photo source: zombiephiles.com

5150 and proud of it

I admit it, I’m crazy. But here’s the thing—I like it. I won’t be doing anything to change it.

I’m not talking the full 72-hour-hold type of crazy, the I’m-going-to-slash-my-wrists-the-right-way-in-someone-else’s-bathtub kind of psychosis. I’m talking the little bit wild, free-spirited, different thinking, kinda awesome type of crazy. The kind that fuels incredible, gut wrenching works of art, inspires amazing novels and films, and gives you the fearlessness you need to leap over anxiety-inducing obstacles. The incendiary kind of crazy that reminds you that you’re alive.

This delicious but volatile state can drive a relationship to the fiercest places imaginable—that tumultuous rollercoaster ride they call crazy love. We’ve all taken that journey at one time, evolving into that lunatic of a girl that an angry or overwhelmed boyfriend deems crazy. Boiling bunnies and ferrets aside, yes, women may be a little bit crazier than men. Is that really such a bad thing?

Ultimately, we’re often classified as loca simply because we’re different from the opposite sex—we are so completely disparate in the way we act, think and love. We often wear our emotions on our sleeve and may sometimes act on them irrationally. Yet how boring would our world be if we all just upped our testosterone and jumped into the boxing ring when we were feeling emotional?

It’s easy to understand why a crazy episode can scare a man back into the cave that he came from. How can they comprehend a flood of emotions that grips your entire being? The kind that makes you disappear into a blur of white flashes and adrenaline rushes, sticky sweet one moment and pure scalding fire the next. That wave of lunacy that pulls you out into a deep, invisible ocean where you ride wave after crashing wave, until you suddenly wake up and no longer recognize yourself.

If you haven’t experienced your crazy side, you’re truly missing out—or you’re in denial. If I didn’t embrace mine, how else would I give birth to the twisted screenplays that pay my bills, write deviant reflections on life and devise innovative ways to publicize the other writers and clients I represent? How would I creatively solve business problems that require more abstract, out-of-the-box thinking? Where would I escape from the tragedies and danger that life confronts me with? How would I be able to fend off the zombies that attack me in an apocalyptic quest to consume my scrumptious brains?

Life is just too short to bottle it all in. I’m not saying bust out the machete and let loose on the neighborhood—just that it’s not so bad to indulge your inner lunatic every once in awhile. Who cares what anyone else thinks? The opinion of some random truly has no effect on your life—only you can give them that power. What’s most important is what you think and what the ones you love think. And if they love you too, I guarantee they will accept you for all your craziness. They might even like it.

The next time someone calls you crazy, psycho or loca, smile sweetly and thank them. Then go ahead and flash them that deranged glint in your eye.

Gut checks and gorings

For some strange reason, all these celebrities who make appearances or get “mugged” on Skid Row inspired me to finally write about my experience in Pamplona this summer. Maybe it’s the whole “asking for trouble” or “playing with fire” correlation. While privileged actors hit up Skid Row looking for the hard stuff so they can get their own personal thrill, I hit the streets of Pamplona to experience an adrenaline rush like no other—without the stuff.

The thing is, I forgot that danger isn’t always where you think it is.

After a few relaxing days in gorgeous, upscale San Sebastian, we rode a decidedly less upscale bus to Pamplona. Even though I’d mapped out the 10-minute walk from the train station to our hotel, I knew the friend I was traveling with didn’t want to make the trek with her gigantic rolling suitcase. So when we arrived in Pamplona, I broke one of my cardinal rules of travel—only take registered taxis from hotels or airports. After traveling through the war zone of former Yugoslavia and a few scary experiences in Egypt, yeah, I have some rules. Despite the little tingling in my gut, we jumped in this creepy little man’s cab.

We handed over our luggage so he could put it in the trunk, and carried our purses in the car with us. He didn’t know English, so we gave him the address and that was it. He called someone on his Bluetooth, which we could hear through the car speakers. I thought it was weird that, when the person answered, he just punched in a couple of numbers and hung up. Whatever. Crank call to your heart’s content. Just get us to our hotel.

Once we arrived at the hotel, he didn’t quite pull all the way up to it. The streets were packed with thousands of people in their white and red, but there was still enough room to take us all the way there. We paid him and then he went to the trunk to get our luggage. When he opened it, we realized that my bag wasn’t there. Still speaking no Inglés, he held up his hand to signify that we didn’t have two pieces back there. Obviously, I know how much luggage I have. After wasting time way too much time arguing with us in Spanish, he drove us back to the station at a snail’s pace.

There it was. Three police officers were surrounding my luggage. I’m so lucky. I got out and talked to them while one of them seemed to be arguing with the driver. They saw the entire thing go down—the driver left the bag in the street and another man quickly ran out to try and grab it. But they stopped the wannabe thief and confiscated my bag until either we came back for it or it was deemed property of the bomb squad.

At this point, we just wanted to get back to the hotel. Our driver took us back and as my friend got out of the car, he shouted, “50 euros.” That wasn’t going to happen. I was super incensed by the whole almost-losing-my-luggage experience, so no, I told him, I’m not paying you for taking us back to where you left my luggage in the street. “We call the police!” he threatened. Perfect, call the police!

Suddenly, his English was perfect. What a surprise. We continued to argue and since he wouldn’t open the trunk to give us our bags, I wouldn’t get out of the car—it was a total stalemate. But all of a sudden, the next thing I knew, he jumped back in the driver’s seat, simultaneously igniting the door locks. Somehow, I had the forethought to throw my purse out the cracked window to my friend. It had my money, passport, cellphone and map in it. This idiot was not going to rob me.

He made a maniacal three point turn as I watched our hotel and my friend disappear from my sight. Now what? I tried to stay calm as he yelled even more maniacally than he drove. Once I got past that immediate rush of panic, I realized we were getting further away from the hotel. I needed to do something. Clearly, he wasn’t calling the police, but I didn’t think he had a backup plan for his little robbery-gone-wrong. I could tell we were both thinking, what now?

I started messing with his head. You’re screwed now, I told him. You don’t kidnap an American and get away with it. And I promise you, my friend is inside that hotel calling the cops.

He snickered and sneered. So I went a step further.

By tomorrow night, you’ll be someone’s bitch. Guys your size don’t make it far in prison. You’re screwed.

“Give me 50 euro,” he repeated.

My friend has my money, my phone, everything. You’re screwed. You’re kidnapping an American. Your life is over.

This probably only went on for five minutes, but it felt like five hours. Finally, either he came to his senses or got sick of listening to me. A little luggage theft and an international kidnapping are two very different things. He stopped in the middle of traffic, threw our bags out of the trunk and let me out.

Thankfully, I have an insanely good sense of direction and somehow made my way back to the hotel with our two rolling suitcases—but I was sweating and p*ssed by the time I got there. Police were swarming. Apparently, the hotel got the entire incident on video and there were many witnesses.

We probably should have just given him the 50 euros—I know you’re supposed to just give up your purse or wallet in situations where you feel threatened. Obviously, that gene is just not in my pool. While I would never recommend someone do what I did, I can’t take it back and I don’t regret it. They caught the culprit that very night, so as a result of my irrational behavior, he could no longer run his luggage-theft scam on other tourists for the rest of Pamplona’s most popular week for tourism.

Once the police were gone, I unpacked and decided this would not ruin my time in Pamplona.

The next morning, as I was waited in the throngs for the run to start, we kept attracting attention from American guys in the crowd. I’m not sure whether it was my red-white-and-blue makeup and headband or the fact that we were two of only six girls who ran that day, out of almost 4000 people. People kept asking me for advice on the run, thinking I’d done it already, because I looked so zen and didn’t seem nervous. That’s because I wasn’t nervous. After avoiding a near-kidnapping, I figured, these bulls are nothing to be scared of.

I was right—running with the bulls is one of the most amazing things ever. You feel so alive and you totally bond with the people you run with. The adrenaline rush is like nothing else I’ve experienced, every sense is just awake. There were no gorings the day we ran, but like every day of the Encierro, a few suffered minor injuries.

What did I learn from this experience? Listen to your gut and don’t mess with the U.S. Or girls from the U.S., anyway. Would I do it again? I’ve already booked my ticket for next year.

The art of annihilating zombies

With the rising use of bath salts and the imminent threat of a zombie apocalypse, it’s time to get a strategy in place to eliminate undead riff raff, even if it’s a former friend, family member or co-worker. There’s no doubt about it, putting these nasty brain-suckers out of their misery is the right thing to do, and the only way to ensure your own survival.

The undead are notoriously difficult to kill, most likely because they’re already dead. To thoroughly annihilate a zombie, you’ve got to do some serious damage to the brain. While it’s fine to be creative with your technique, the most important thing is accuracy. You may only have one chance to get the job done.

Successfully killing one of these undead dudes requires solid planning, as well as preparation for unexpected obstacles. While the cliché methodology we see in movies is interesting enough and makes some sense, few people have actually met a zombie, so we have to plan beyond common speculation.  Until you meet someone who has survived an apocalypse, it’s best to prepare yourself for anything and everything.

While movies and television shows portray the undead as slow, uncoordinated creatures, who knows if they really can be outrun? In addition to getting that booty in the best shape possible, you’ll want to buy premier running shoes and every type of acceleration device known to man. Even if these guys are slow, getting cornered in a confined space with a bunch of them could be fatal. If you want to hang onto your brains, make sure you’re always strapped and carry a variety of knives to wield at close range. If they do get all space invader on you, a knife through the brain is probably your best bet.

The most surefire route to destroying zombies is decapitation. Lopping off that ugly mug with a chainsaw, samurai sword or, my personal favorite, a machete, is your best bet. Just be sure to follow-through completely—you can’t trust whatever’s left hanging. If you do have to go the chainsaw route, make sure to clean up immediately, as the aftermath of zombie flesh may attract more in your direction.

The easiest way to fend off the undead is with a little unfriendly gunfire. If you do have time to shoot, make sure to aim directly for their forehead. Don’t waste valuable ammo by shooting these creatures in the leg or arms. If there is an apocalypse, ammo is bound to be scarce, so save it for the right shot. With that in mind, start practicing at a shooting range now to learn gun safety and hone your skills. The last thing you want to do is waste your bullets or bust a cap on some poor human.

If for some reason, you have no ammo left and you’re forced to engage in a little hand-to-hand combat with a member of the undead, it’s good to have martial arts and knife-wielding skills. It’s also helpful to have a crow bar handy. Due to its versatility and sturdiness, the crow bar is an ideal zombie weapon—using both hands, you can easily bludgeon one straight through the cranium to destroy its brain. A baseball bat is even better, but a little unwieldy to carry around and not the greatest fashion statement.

Last, but not least, you can always light the undead on fire. If you douse a zombie with gasoline and hurl a Molotov cocktail at it, the heat will incinerate their brain and they’ll no longer be a problem.

The bottom line is, if we want to survive a zombie apocalypse, we need to be on point at all times—one slip up and you, too, could be reduced to a grunting, brain-craving beast limping down the road in a zombie-style crip walk. Not fun and not attractive.

Bath salts, bible beaters & naked zombies

Signs of the apocalypse or the next drug epidemic?

Here we go again—yet another naked zombie attack in Florida. This time, the cannibal action happened in St. Augustine. The scary thing is, it barely made headlines, unlike the first reported zombie attack that took place in May when bible thumping Rudy Eugene, aka “the Causeway Cannibal,” chewed off the face of an elderly homeless man on the MacArthur Causeway.

The violent rampages are becoming so common that they’re no longer making national news.

Early Saturday morning, police responded to a call that a man had trashed a family’s patio furniture and was raising hell on their roof—butt naked. When the homeowner and his son tried to restrain 22-year-old Jeremiah Haughee, he escaped their grasp and ran inside their house. Once inside, Haughee went full demonic on them, peeing on the floor before taking a huge bite out of the homeowner’s stomach, resulting in a severe, permanently disfiguring injury.

Once the police arrived, it took five of them to restrain the naked cannibal—ewww, who would want to even touch his urine-covered a&%. Despite being handcuffed, shackled and tasered multiple times, Haughee continued to put up a fight, biting a police officer’s leg and subsequently getting a hood thrown over his head. The man was finally knocked out when the police shot him up with a tranquilizer.

The reports and bizarre sightings are increasing exponentially, and the world is taking notice. What is giving these creatures the license to unleash their inner zombie? Is it bath salts or some other strength-enhancing hallucinogen? Or is it truly the advent of a zombie epidemic? This latest cannibalistic attack brings to light some qualities that all the culprits seem to share:

Superhuman strength and stamina
A propensity for nudity
An uncontrollable hankering for flesh
A lack of respect for authority

As the violent rampages by man-eating strippers multiply in number, we’ve got to wonder, are the apocalyptic predictions coming true or is this just a case of self-fulfilling prophecy? Are we facing another drug epidemic like the surge of crack cocaine during the 80s, but with more brutally violent side effects? Time will tell, but in the meantime, I’m stockpiling my safe house with Twinkies, grenade launchers and submachine uzis.