Must confess, sometimes I wonder about being a writer.  The thing is, if you are a writer you are bound to have crazy things happen to you.  It’s as if the universe is always trying to give you new material.

Though, I’ve not really feeling the universe thing this morning.  Kinda tired.  Last night played out like a scene from my friend Joe’s killer zombie novel, or maybe it was more the drunken Goldilocks scenario.  Ever thought about that? What would Goldilocks be like if she was plastered and couldn’t find her way home?  It’s not very kid friendly, but rest assured I could write that book in an instant.

Why you ask?  Let me tell you.

Eleven o’clock last night a man (I’ll call him Zombie Goldilocks) came to the door looking for his “files.”  It turns out that he’d been over earlier and he’d left them here.  When we didn’t give him the files he tried to push in and have a rest on the couch.  Zombie Goldilocks was absolutely snickered.  A total train wreck.  We shut him out.  We turned off the lights.

Zombie Goldilocks spent time on the front porch.  He swung on the swing.  He played some Angry Birds.  Then he’d decide that he wanted to come back in.  So he’d rammed his body into my vintage door from 1932.

This was a problem.

I called 911.  The Zombie Goldilocks put on some Johnny Cash.  He rammed on the door.  He walked around the house looking for another way in.  He took a few calls.  He rammed on the door.

Now, I’m not really a nervous person, but Zombie Goldilocks was a tad disturbing.

When the police arrived.  He was gone because naturally he’s a Zombie.

Yeah, life imitating art.  Not so much fun.

Here’s a Zombie Goldilocks costume.  Maybe I’ll wear it next Halloween. Or next time that guy comes to my door.  I’ll run put it on and yell, “I DON’T HAVE YOUR FILES!”