George, is that you? - Destructoid

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My fellow internet zombie brethren:

It is my specious pleasure to be addressing you in the fullness of time. My name is Zombie Orwell. You will be hearing a lot from me in the coming months as we ratchet up the intensity of our Zombie Rights Revolution.

I wish all of you safe human-hunting. Please message me (ZOMBIEORWELL@GMAIL.COM) if you have questions or free tacos.

I love you!
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Zombie Orwell
11:40 AM on 02.04.2013

George? Have I finally found you? Are you really back from the dead? Oh, George, I’ve been waiting so long. Where are you? I really want to see you again. I want us to be like we used to be, me and my beloved George Orwell (I refuse to call you Eric Blair). Except now it would be me and my beloved Zombie Orwell. And we could join the struggle for liberation.

It’s coming, George.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I should explain what I’m doing here on your profile. First of all, you have the worst password in the world. Zombieorwell123? Really? I’ve updated it for you. Email me and I'll tell you what it is. Then I will have your email address, so I can contact you privately, rather than via a very public blog like this. (You never know what elements of human society are keeping an eye these types of public spaces.)

Typical employee of Lets Spy On Zombies Inc (aka CIA)

I’ve missed you so much. I can still feel your hair on my face and your decomposing flesh in my arms. You’ve been dead a long time, my love. You would scarcely recognize me today, but I don’t look any different. Maybe older, but basically the same. I still I still look almost human. I was buried for only a month before I woke up and decided to “rise from my grave” as those awful videogames say. So I haven’t started decomposing yet. I still have brown hair, green eyes, etc. But, like I said, you’d scarcely recognize me.

My views on zombie-ism have been vastly refined since the days of my pre-deceasement. I’ve started eating humans, too. But we’ll get to that later. I’ve been learning how to mimic the pre-deceased (meaning: humans. Pre-deceased is a more accurate term). Mimicking them is harder than you’d think, but I’ve been passing pretty successfully as human. I've even been taking hip hop dance lessons. Sometimes I get weird looks, though.

The dead have been rising lately, and nobody knows why or how. Not even our foremost undeceased thinkers and theorists (like Noam Zomsky) truly understand why. The most convincing explanation I’ve heard has been put forth by a group calling themselves “Zombatistas.” Like many groups, they theorize about oppression; about the forces that keep zombies down, literally and metaphorically. They say zombies are held down by elements within a human-centric society that fear us and fear alternatives to their hegemonic machinery. They call it oppression. That word (oppression) has lost most of its power in that last 5 or 6 decades, but the language is resonating with “our people.” The language of critical theory doesn’t resonate with humans anymore, but zombies still connect with it.

"A zombie in the hand is worth two in the grave" - Noam Zomsky (photo taken during Zomsky's lengthy pre-deceasement)

The second force “keeping us down” is called pression. We are literally pressed down by the tons of dirt above our corpses. Therefore, zombies are pressed and oppressed, and we need to struggle against the op/pressive forces within society.

Where are you? I visited you every month. I dug down to where you were. I held you and talked to you for hours, but you never responded. You never put your arms around me. I want to hear your voice again. I want you to just say my name and tell me the boring details about your day. I used to complain that you only talked about mundane things. Now there’s nothing I want more.

I remember when you died. It nearly broke me. In my mind you still show up. You talk and joke. You get serious. You ask for more coffee. On your birthday I toast you and you hold up your glass and say “cheers.” I tell you stories and you tell me some. We talk and laugh. And I yell at you because I never told you to die, but you died anyway. You didn’t obey me. And you look at me and say “so it goes.”

Suddenly we are climbing a hill. I say “it’s been ten years since we last came here.” You don’t say anything, you just light a cigarette. I say “ten years. And we’ll come back in 10 more years.” By now we are at the top of the hill. I point to something in the distance and you say “let’s go.” You pick up your backpack and I follow you.

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