My phone rings at work. It’s Jake. Jake has been my friend since grade school. His mom was the Spanish teacher at our high school and his house is where we’re all going in the event of a zombie apocalypse. That machete I got for Christmas? Jake gave it to me. I understand how that might sound strange to some of you, but you really have to understand my friends. Zombies are a big deal, for one, and there’s no excuse for being caught unprepared in the event of their takeover. Second, we’ve all known each other for long enough that we are at least somewhat invested in each other’s survival.
Anyway. Earlier today. My phone rings at work.
Jake: Hey, what’s up?
Me: I’m at work, what’s going on?
Jake: I wanted to tell you before I put it on Facebook, but I’m moving to Kansas City.
Me (in a decidedly ungentle tone): Why?
Jake: I got a job there. It’s a directorial position with blahblahblah, who even cares (edited).
Me: (Marge Simpson grumble) Kansas City isn’t even a good place to visit.
Jake: They have good barbecue.
Me: Pffft, so does my dad.
Jake: I’m sure I’ll find another reason.
Me: Have you even thought about where I’m supposed to go in the event of the zombie apocalypse, Jake?
Jake: Nate’s keeping the house. And I’m a crafty motherfucker, I’ll make it back.
Me: (Marge Simpson grumble)
Jake: I knew you’d say that.