Salutations, humans of the world!
I am Bram Rottington, and though my sister insists on calling me “a walking health code violation” or “the reason our mother lost her sense of smell,” I find her assessments incomplete. I am not just a collection of odors and hazards, I am a scholar of the strange, a connoisseur of bugs, an innovator of controlled chaos. To put it short: I’m a curiosity-powered superbrain designed for peak zombie living.
Which is why I’m here: to explain why, in my humble but scientifically sound opinion, zombie life is the greatest upgrade any human could hope for.
By the end of this blog, you may even consider joining the resistance.
One of our perks? Never brushing your teeth again. Need I go on?
Before I earned the privilege of undeath, I was a small human with far too many questions and absolutely no impulse control. If something was new, shiny, sticky, smelly, forbidden, edible, or simply within reach… it went directly into my mouth.
Mother’s makeup? Yes.
Hot glue gun? Better than gooey syrup.
AA battery? Only once, and it buzzed delightfully.
By age eight, the ER staff knew me by name. They never appreciated my bodily discoveries, but at least they were passive about it.
The dentists, however?
Those evil, tooth-hungry psychopaths with their mint-scented lairs and sinister little hooks? They were my sworn enemies long before I understood the concept of an “op.”
Between ER visits and dental torture, it felt like the entire living world disapproved of my greatest strength: curiosity.
Thankfully, everything changed when our Grandfather came to live with us. He handed me his old science textbooks, cleared a corner of his garage lab just for me, and even gifted me my very first proper journal.
Under his guidance my curiosity blossomed: loudly, dangerously, gloriously.
For the first time, I realized: My curiosity wasn’t a flaw. It was a talent.
I won’t bore you with the details of how we became zombies on a tropical island, you’ve heard that story enough. What matters is this: once the dust settled, my entire world opened up.
My body stopped rebelling.
My stomach welcomed the “inedible.”
My mind sharpened like a scalpel.
Most importantly, I gained unrestricted access to my favorite research subjects: bugs.
I catalogued them all in what would become my most prized possession: The Bug Bible, a comprehensive and occasionally sticky volume of every species I’ve encountered in Porto Morto. Some I sketch. Some I dissect. Some I taste. Science demands versatility.
Most importantly, my parents gave me free reign: no more shelves out of reach.
If I needed something, I could literally dig up an extra pair of arms to fetch it. Liberation!
My zombie body could withstand chemicals, critters, questionable concoctions — freeing me to pursue discovery without consequence.
For the first time ever, curiosity and survival aligned perfectly.
Even the happiest afterlife has interruptions — mine arrived during a delightful evening of gaming and glow-bug snacking. One moment I’m enjoying a worm disco in my mouth, and the next:
WHOOSH! — a C.A.R.E. vaccine blast through my window and hits me square in the face.
Suddenly I am no longer a brilliant undead being but a sweaty, horrified human boy with too many working nerves.
My teeth rotted.
My gums inflamed.
Every cavity I’d ever earned in my short, sticky life began screaming bloody murder.
The worms in my mouth stopped dancing and abandoned me entirely. Traitors.
Before I could even adjust to having a pulse, I was strapped into the most barbaric contraption imaginable; a device that would make a medieval dungeon blush: the dentist chair.
Whatever composure I had dissolved instantly.
I became a child again: panicked, sweating, internally combusting, begging fate to return me to zombiric bliss.
Salvation arrived in the form of my father, who burst into the room like a heroic Viking and bit me back to where I belonged.
One chomp, and I was free.
Free from the drill — that awful, shrieking drill.
Free from humanity!
I may think my father a clumsy fool at times, but never have I loved him more.
Surviving sudden humanity taught me one thing: no zombie should suffer such indignities.
Zombie life gave me freedom to experiment, to explore, to eat whatever scuttles by without fear of judgment or dental reprisal.
C.A.R.E. wants to take all that away.
They want order.
They want “proper hygiene”
They want Dentists!!!
They want to cure curiosity itself and that, in my expert opinion, is unforgivable.
So yes, I fight for every bug-loving zombie child.
Every aspiring scientist who needs space to tinker and occasionally explode things.
Every creature who prefers to rot over floss.
And if you value freedom — or simply wish to avoid dental appointments forever — you should consider joining us, too.
Well, I must return to my experiments. Several critters in my room are attempting to unionize, and I need to document their behavior before they realize I’m listening.
If you’ve enjoyed this glimpse into my highly advanced brain, support the resistance — or at least keep an open mind about the joys of zombie life.
Spread the word. Embrace the rot.
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