How many women are in your writers’ room?
I learnt to let go, un-wedge axes
from skulls, how to pull knives out of muscle without damage to both parties. One party’s pretty damaged already and this is deciphering time, deciding if we’re just as fucked as they are. You can’t control cancers over lifetimes, and the research is gone that kept viruses, ills away. None of us are terminal and we all are. On foot was the option, wrong decision. You can’t run for nights, but hours only.
I execute each stab with movie precision like it’s impossible to miss twice. I’m waiting for saviours or alternatives. Now, the world shows its hierarchy which is always a patriarchy which we didn’t fix when we thought we did. We used to think everything was fine when it wasn’t and some prioritise wrong, think that laundry is an end times’ concern, that dishes are. But blood stains don’t wash out and when they do I have to wonder, “How long did you spend scrubbing, how many washes, rewashes were there? Did you waste bleach on white shirts, Y-fronts? Shouldn’t you have saved it for dissolving flesh, for drinking when there’s only you left?”
They, the studio, producers, writers, promise the second half is serious, that the season picks up after Christmas. But the talk turns out to be sham, the way marriages do after months of magazine rumours and leaked pictures online of the partners with altogether different people. No-one leaves the farm. They bury the undead, waste scenes on zombie’s limbs falling off trucks as they’re transported to bonfires or graves, alternate endings depending on who means something is made mundane. Women make irrational decisions: wander the woods, drive unnecessarily, often straight into zombies, causing car flips and wreckage. And the men drink, have stuttered revelations, stagger, piss on floors in public places, lie, shoot the living in the head, the only interesting characters we’ve seen in weeks ended after ten minutes’ screen time, because the fact you can act doesn’t lend itself to this show. It’s a liability. You’ve got to go.
I placed a bet that his wife would be dead by the end of the season. The end of the world makes people ruthless.