Bry Hoeg, Reluctant Zombie Hunter

I'm very susceptible to certain types of imagery.

I see things and then dream of them later. I'm afraid of certain things and any reminder of my fears leads to dreams.

I spent a good five years of my life having continuous snake dreams.

I don't watch scary movies because I will dream about them later. There is no question, the things on the screen will haunt my dreams.

Yesterday I came home and sat down on the couch and reached for the TV remote.  As the TV flashed on I thought, oh yeah, I'm not supposed to watch TV. And then, there on the screen, was the unmistakable image of a zombie lurching down a dirt road.

"Yep. That's a zombie," I said, and immediately clicked the TV off.

I immediately knew that this zombie was a harbinger of bad dreams.

One might say, "Bry, you set yourself up for bad dreams by acknowledging that the zombie scares you and what scares you gives you nightmares. You told your brain to dream about zombies."

That is now how this works.

Every night when I fall asleep, I tell my brain to dream about Peter Dinklage or James McAvoy. Or Peter Dinklage AND James McAvoy at the same time.

And I never dream about either of them, let alone the oddest three-way ever.

Sometimes I tell my brain to dream about tropical vacations and cold rum drinks. And I never dream about beaches or booze.

Sometimes I tell my brain to dream about winning the lottery.

But I usually dream about yelling at people.

I don't like zombies. I don't like scary things. I don't even want to watch movies about zombies and Brad Pitt. But that's mostly because I haven't like Brad Pitt in a movie since he was a greasy, hipster, moonraker.

Or this very one scene in a movie in which he was sort of likeable.

So no zombies for me.

I decided, post-zombie shock, I should go outside and do some yard work, since that is one of the reasons I shouldn't be watching TV. Plus some hard labor would give me something else to think about, other than things that could eat my brains.

And then I got locked in the backyard for an hour and a half and completely forgot about zombies while I was trying to think of a creative way to get back in the house.

Long (and boring) story short, by the end of those 90 minutes, the garage was very clean and orderly and then I got a ladder and climbed in a very high window that should have been locked. No time to think of anything scary other than death by cold weather while locked in one's very own backyard.

So when I woke up in the middle of the night, sweaty and panicked, it was not because of Dinklage or McAvoy.

Nope.

Zombies.

I dreamed of zombies. Three times I feel back asleep, only to be woken in fear.

Zombies.

Ack.

I will have you know, in my dreams, I was very adept at snapping the necks of zombies. I was excellent at grabbing their jaws with a rake and tearing their mushy faces off their bodies. But I also cried the entire time.

When the shit hits the fan, you want me on your team.

Just bring Kleenex.