Love me tender

I see tight pink sweaters and red hearts everywhere. People skip and sigh, they covetlously hold sweaty palms and try to pace their walks with the other´s steps. Oh, these public displays of affection and tenderness make me yearn for a bit of cyanide. Butterflies flutter in my belly as I retch and the sweet puppy love stares of devotion seem as exciting as my dentist’s waiting room.

However, for as extensively as I search, I have yet to find that the ardor of all hearts is represented. For example, who has done the marketing for affectionate zombies? They have feelings too! Who sells them chocolate covered brains? Who makes the reservations for a secluded table under the cover of the vultures?

So much wasted passion.

Zombies also need advice for their devotion. For example, here a suggestion for a pick up line.

Fuente

And if you are in the other side, being the object of affection of a devoted zombie, here is a recommended line of action*.

*If you are not positive that the drooling, brainless guy requiring your affection is a zombie, just proceed in the same manner explained.

Those beasts!

We love to believe that the world makes sense, our sense.

We see animals as these humanified and social beings. We give them personalities and emotions and we think they love us so very much and that they are the only ones that understand us. We place them in spaces where they don’t belong and when the mean evil dog mauls the innocent little kid, everyone is frightened and surprised (but he just loooves children). But the animal keeps being that, and well, we cannot deny these attacks are usually funny.

Today, a beast special: news reporters and animals (you decide which is the beast).

Leaping lizard


Cute kittens


Nasty bugs


Grapes and bats

Lord, help my poor soul

I can not imagine that 200 years ago, when he was born, his mother could have suspected that 40 years later the comatose body of her babe would be lying life-less on a ditch in front of a tavern. That mangy dogs and scruffy rats would jump over his inert body, but his repulsive smell would impede them make the traditional sniffing performed by such critters. That her precious son´s life, in practical terms, had been pathetic and miserable. And she never knew, for she departed this life when he was 2. A somber existence, it seems to be, an unfortunate marriage to a 13-year old cousin (who died at 15), zero monetary gains, no properties, gambling debts, addicted to various drugs, a complete and total loser… lying in a puddle besides the sidewalk, being soaked in borrowed clothes. His last four days would be spent in a hospital, amidst delirium and hallucinations, refusing even to drink water. And the causes of his death were inconclusive, either because of his abuse of alcohol, or rabies (he was probably bitten by a bat during his long hours of insomnia, or by any of his numerous dogs and cats he kept in his house), or syphilis, or suicide, or murder, or it simply does not matter. Alcoholic, gambler, unwell, pedophile, incestuous, good for nothing, disinherited, just like that, Edgar Allan Poe died.



Perhaps, the parameters we use to measure success are skewed.