I appear to be discorporating.
January 27th, 2016
This is how the zombie apocalypse starts.
As a result of a mysterious allergic reaction to... something here at work, my hands are starting to look a bit like uncooked meat. In the past, I assumed that I was allergic to acetone, since inhaling an unfortunate amount of powdered nail polish remover caused my entire body to break out in an incredibly painful rash similar to what I'm experiencing on my hands. Mostly the right one, but both nonetheless.
I had a similar, but lesser reaction on my hands two years ago, so I was operating under the assumption that the acetone in our flux remover was doing the same thing. But, as it turns out, some medical website is trying to inform me that I can't be allergic to acetone, since acetone isn't an allergen. Which is odd, because all kinds of people can have reactions to all kinds of things, but whatever.
So as my flesh slowly begins to slough off my imminent corpse, I am also staggeringly hungry. I'm sitting here in the break room sizing up my irritating coworkers, and finding myself wondering just how delicious they would be. Not that they wouldn't be tasty if properly prepared, but just how tasty. If my lunch doesn't sit well with me, I may have to consume somebody hereabouts.
And since I'm experiencing some sort of biochemical breakdown, they'll surely rise up as a zombie, and the next thing you know, it's Walking Dead all over again, but probably with a lot less soap opera. And a lot more 'necks chopping people's heads off for good measure, or simply because they've finally got an excuse to murder everybody that they don't like. They don't like a lot of people.
Better get a gun. Better get all the guns.