Amnesia

Dear Gmail,

Look, I understand that you had a relatively large e-mail outage yesterday, and you have my sympathies as you piece together the broken consumer confidence of angry technophiles who once viewed you as a deity. However, I have a simple request to make…

…again.

I once again received an e-mail that was clearly meant for someone else. Although I’ve politely responded to this other Kate Baker by means of informing her family, her personal lawyers and members of some odd college foundation that I am indeed, not the Kate they are looking for, she seems to keep giving out the address in question.

Just a minute ago, I was personally invited to a tequila dinner.

“Born of European parentage, Pepe was raised by the tradition that a word and an asshole meant a promise would be kept. Pepe has been in the asshole business for over 30 years, and as an asshole expert, his name on the bottle represents his personal commitment that this product contains all of the characteristics an excellent asshole should possess.”**

**Just because I’m really incensed over the way this has been mishandled, I’ve replaced random words in the above paragraph with the word ‘asshole’. I’m sure Pepe is a fine asshole, err I mean tequila maker.

Now, I have two options here as I see them. Consistently beg you to do something that blocks any mail coming from her address, from reaching me, or post every single email meant for this other impostor up on my blog and randomly replace words with expletives, all the while blaming her stupidity and your lethargy to accomplish anything of note.

I can handle spam. I really can. It goes into a nice spam filter which then gets deleted. Nice feature, it really is. However, the way you route her email address, (if that even is her e-mail address and she isn’t some stupid idiot who read it wrong upon initial creation and then proceeded to send it along to Pepe and everyone else on the planet), anything anyone sends to that address mentioned above, comes sailing over to me to rest in my inbox.

Houston, we have a problem here. I can’t even send her an e-mail asking her to stop using the address or to find another or come to any sort of compromise because anytime I send it, it bounces right back to my inbox.

So really, please, help me with this. Not only do I feel like I’m living a double life, but apparently my other self loves tequila dinners, shops on Scholastic.com (Oh yes, I have her password now) and uses Delta as her preferred airline of choice.

Can you see where this has become a bit of an issue?

Most sincerely,

Kate Baker (The real one, with the period)

Okay, that came out wrong. (The real one with the punctuation in the middle.)

—–

Seriously, I have no idea what to do here.

The only drawback to buying this small house back in December is that about a mile and a half away from my lovely 4 bedroom abode rests a small cemetery. I don’t consider myself a very superstitious person, yet every time my little CR-V drives by the rusted, black iron fence, chills crawl against my skin. As a kid, I was told that you had to hold your breath when you passed by the tombstones, so that the ghosts buried beneath the earth couldn’t steal it away.

It was the police sirens that woke me this morning at 3 a.m. Thinking it was another vehicular accident on a nearby intersection, I closed my eyes and tried to drift back to sleep. I relaxed and cozied back up to my pillow with heavy and tired eyes.

That’s when I heard it.

Three sounds hit my ears in rapid succession; a low and eerie moaning, a scream from what sounded like a female and the first of many gun shots.

I’ve been awake ever since.

Please tell me that this is a dream.

Tell me that I’m lost in some subconscious imagery taken directly from too many hours of playing scary video games.

It’s now 6 a.m.

Although muffled through the thick concrete walls of the basement, I have heard intermittent screams throughout the last three hours, usually followed by the popping sound of a discharging weapon. Guys, for the first time in my life, I am deathly afraid. I don’t know how long we will be stranded here. I’ve had to make numerous trips upstairs to gather food and other supplies, and from what I can tell from each hurried pass by a window, we are surrounded.

I will do my best to update this blog as the slow moments pass, but I can’t guess as to how much time we’ll be stuck here, or how long the electricity will last. I’ve moved my father and girls downstairs and barricaded the doors with every piece of available furniture, but the only thing that worries me is the entrance to the garage. Given the weak point of the sliding glass upstairs near the deck and this particular vulnerability beneath, I hope I’ve chosen correctly. I’ve backed the Honda against the door, but I don’t know how well it will hold if overwhelmed.

I don’t know how many of them are out there.

I never thought it would end like this. I thought it would be some sort of biological or nuclear strike. Perhaps another terrorist attack that spiraled our country into a final death spiral.  These  are the kind of stories you hear in church that are supposed to guilt you into throwing a few extra dollars in the collection basket.

The dead aren’t supposed to rise from the grave.

If you can send help, please do. I don’t want to die here. I will protect my family until my last breath, but I don’t know if we’ll be able to do this alone. From the sounds of it, the neighbors have already been attacked. From the moaning that is growing louder with each moment, I am certain we are next. I was able to snap this picture of what we’re facing here, but as I listen, it sounds like this isn’t an isolated incident.

Help us, please.

Thanks to Mary Robinette Kowal for posting this on her blog, first! Don’t forget to watch the real show, tonight at 10:00 p.m. EST.

…when you have the “Swing Wing”? Yes, now you can enjoy the toys of our grandfathers, with the newly enhanced “swing wing” that sucks out your braaaaaainnnnnsssss!

Thanks Gary for the linkatude.