I totally get zombies.  I think I am one.

At least I have been for the last few weeks, which would also explain why I haven’t been posting to my beloved blog.  Allow me to offer a few examples:

I don’t sleep – neither do zombies.

I shuffle around, doing the same thing all day, every day – so do zombies.

My arms are often stretched out before me (with my fingers resting on a keyboard, but still) and my eyes are fixed on some area off in the distance (my monitor) – zombies do the same thing.

I’ve lost the ability to communicate in anything other than a series of grunts and moans – just like zombies.

“State Street Financial is sued by Calpers,” the headline reads.  What?  I own 1,000 shares of State Street Financial and the stock is tanking?

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

“The dollar is rebounding,” CNBC tells me.  That’s IMPOSSIBLE!  I’ve got an assload of gold futures!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

“SunTrust has been down-graded to ‘Sell.’” Motherfucker!  Their P/E is great!

OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

“The Great Recession is over.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Not in my neighborhood.

I don’t eat brains, like my zombie brethren, but that’s because I’m Southern, and I’ve yet to see Paula Dean come up with a decent recipe for them.

“Buttah! Buttah, y’all.  You gotta slatha them brains in buttah, then battah them brains in buttah and onion ring battah, then deep fry them brains!  Serve ‘em over a slab of melted buttah!”

They’d probably taste like calamari.

Instead, I prescribe to the Sheryl Crow recipe for life: “I been livin’ on coffee and nicotine.”

I bet you didn’t know that zombies like coffee and cigarettes, but we do.  They keep us working 12-16 hours a day when the deals keep coming (deals make zombies happy because deals allow zombies to pay their American Vampire – I mean Express – bills).

But big, major, multi-million dollar deals don’t leave much time for living.  Like Michele Malone said, “Sometimes I feel just like a prisoner/Seems like all I do is go to work and go to bed.”  Lately, I’m pretty sure Michele was singing about me (btw, if you’re not a fan of Michele Malone, you’re really missing out – homegirl rocks!).

And as usual, poor Gradon gets the worst of it.  By the time I slump through the door at the end of the day, completely spent, I don’t have any energy left to give to my poor husband.

“How was your day?” my husband asks.

“BLAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH,” I respond, as I turn on Bloomberg television to check after-market trading.

“Are you hungry?”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” I tell him, trying to figure out if India’s drought will continue and rice futures are a good bet.

He stares at me for a minute, lost in my own little financial world, then he drops the bomb:

“Lady Gaga tickets go on sale tomorrow morning.”

The cobwebs clear. I close my macBook and turn off the TV.

“The Lady is coming?”

“Yep. Pre-sale starts at 10:00.”

YAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!

What can I say? I guess I’m a gay zombie.