With Ripley conked out momentarily, I stepped back into the bathroom to finish up, or rather, re-DO getting ready for work. If I worked like a normal person, today may be a good excuse to call in sick, but since I only physically GO into work once or twice a week, I pretty much have to venture forth, despite my eventful night/morning.
I closed the bathroom door and looked in the mirror.
My lack of sleep was really taking its toll on my face. There was an entire baggage claim area surrounding both of my eyes, and my skin looked like there was dry film encasing it, almost as if it was time for me to molt. I started to pick at my skin, and noticed that yes, there is indeed an extra layer of dried up, pasty epidermis. I guess I should start using lotion, even though I'm convinced that lotion is made purposely to temporarily moisturize your skin, only to leave it even more dried out than before, so you become addicted and have to keep buying it and buying it. I wonder why the conspiracists haven't looked into this yet and connected lotion with the government and the attack on 9/11. Or maybe they have. Either way, I can't afford to keep buying lotion all the time. I can deal with some dry skin. But man, I'm starting to look like Gary Busey.
I brushed my teeth and splashed some water on my face, hoping that the excess baggage rings would simply wash away. There was still a constant pain in my head and chest, as well as the newly formed jaw pain. It hurt to close my mouth all the way now. Shit. Lockjaw is one of the worst things I can think of. Wait, what do you call it when your mouth gets stuck OPEN, instead of closed? It's not lockjaw. It's like…zombiejaw. Craving brains, walking with a limp and moaning AFTER you die doesn't make you a zombie. A constantly gaping, hanging mouth, however, does. And after seeing a man with zombiejaw in front of Safeway last week, I think I am now well prepared as to what to look for in case of a REAL zombie outbreak. He was overweight, mid 40's, greasy, stringy and sparse hair. He was dressed in old dark khakis, a faded red and white button up shirt, and a light blue t-shirt. A real patriot. He was meandering slowly, not seeming to be wandering in the direction of the grocery store, just kind of hovering outside of it, clueless, but definitely in need of something. From far away, I noticed that his shirt was filthy, and had a large tar-colored stain on the chest. Maybe he's a mechanic, I thought. But as I got closer, I saw the man's side profile. His jaw locked open, like there was a wrench jammed in the cog that hinged his mandible. His bottom lip, which looked like it weighed 6 pounds, was being tugged downward by a thick, constant rope of dark drool that was literally anchored into his chest and covered his spherical stomach like the ocean markings on a globe. And his eyes could care less that the stain on his shirt wasn't from mechanic grease, or even sweat. It was the result of a 24 hour drool problem, a major symptom of zombiejaw. But this zombie was different, because he needed some groceries. When I walked by him, he smelled dead, too. Poor guy.

I put my socks and shoes on (I always do this in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet. I don't know why, but it's the most comfortable place in my apartment to put them on) draped my tie around my shoulders, and opened the door to go back into the living room. I was a little startled by Ripley standing there wide-eyed and awake.
"Chadam, what's this, it's pretty…and it's moving."
My eyes felt like they grew to the size of Robert Wadlow. My jaw DID temporarily lock in the open position. And the sweat and fear that I just washed off in the bathroom, rained right back out of my pores. Had i not pissed on my granola bar a little while ago, i would have surely done so now.
Ripley was holding the BOX …