March 12th

This is Jimmy Varn and I am still alive.

The house I found yesterday belonged to Randy and Jennifer Figs. Jennifer kept a diary which I spent most of last night reading. Jennifer worried about her husband looking at other women, whether she will get cancer like her mother and why she keeps getting passed over for a promotion at work. She barely writes four pages about zombies during the three week period after Hell Day.

A group of people barely survived for three weeks. I am on month three.

What she does write about is arguing with her sister who came in with her husband. I see some other names, but I can’t figure out who they were. Mostly Jennifer writes about trying to manage so many people in the same house. There is a whole page about sleeping arrangements and another page about her husband Randy flirting with someone named Natalie.

I tell you, Jennifer sounds like people were driving her crazy, but I would gladly have swapped places with her. Arguing with people over how many times to flush the toilet is a lot better than sleeping alone every night. God, the idea of living with multiple women in the house sounds like heaven.

Then again, I don’t have to argue with anyone when I want to have double cans of baked beans. Jennifer writes about a fight she had over food rationing. She talks about locking the chocolate up. Fuck, I would have to hurt someone if they broke my rationing rules.

I have no idea how they died. People don’t get a chance to put their death in their diary.

My bigger concern is burying them. That is a shit load of bodies. I doubt my back could take it. I know I can skip burying them but it nags at me. I want someone to bury me and I doubt that will happen. I want to do the same for them. Fuck, I am missing people so much; I want to be friendly with them even when they are dead before I get to know them.

I’ll come up with something while I am eating lunch. The Figs were saving two steaks in their basement freezer and I am eating one of them today.