Useless People make Fruitless Zombies.
The main thing I can say about Zombie March Round 2, and last night in general, is that one thing about life will never change: Only about 4% of the population of the world is worth anything. Although the turnout was probably twice as good as round 1, and although everybody had an incredible time, and laughs of teenage zombies echoed throughout the night, there were thoughts of misery and letdown constantly running through the back of my mind. If there's one thing I can't stand more than anything in the world, it's being blown off, and I was blown off by no less than 200 people last night.
The rumor was that Zombie March was going to be huge. All the pieces were in order and it seemed that success in numbers was inevitable. Ms Monster was supposed to be there will her batch of zombies and her camera crew. The SF Chronicle was supposed to be there, hopping on the story of the dead that walked the earth for one night. Media was supposed to surround us in our merrymaking, and my new small-town zombie-loving punk rock friend was supposed to know fifty other small-town zombie-loving punk kids that knew fifty other small-town zombie-loving punk kids that were all anticipating the very night they could emerge as living dead and march through the best time of their lives. Visitors to Laughingsquid.com could even see my flyer for Zombie March as soon as they logged onto their favorite flash-mob website, and that surely meant hundreds and hundreds of people would know of the event and not be able to resist attending. But where was Ms Monster? And where was the Chronicle and the media and the hundreds of small-town zombie-loving punk kids and the followers of laughingsquid? Certainly not at Union Square at ninePM sharp. Wherever all our eager zombies were, whether hitting the snooze button in the grave, stuck underneath layers of earth, or getting drunk as living mortals in the comfort of their own suburban homes and city apartments, they certainly weren't at Zombie March.
It made me wonder what the point of trying to entertain people was. All we ever seem to do is try to make other people happy, when rarely do they appreciate it, or not try and take the entertainment for themselves. If I had gone so far out of my way to please people that weren't even going to try my experimental and inventive ways of having fun, then what was the point of trying to show them a good time at all? It was obvious that people were too afraid to break out of their life-long routines, automatically hailing any abnormal way of drinking alcohol or having a good time as ludacris. Marching with the fraction of people that promised they'd show up and actually had only made me realize that far too much of the population was unreliable, unadventurous, and selfish, and I wondered what exactly made people go back on their words without notice. In the back of my mind the entire night was the lingering feeling of how many times I'd been blown off in the past; how excited I was to arrive at Union Square and find hundred upon hundreds of loyal followers and swashbucklers all fervent to feast on flesh, how I arrived only to find two, and how massively disappointing it felt.
On top of this, I had to deal with the fact that everybody in the world would always take everything personally; how selfishness was everywhere and how everything was always about them. What ended my night at Zombie March personally was coming closer to getting in a fight than I'd ever gotten before, with a black man that towered easily six inches over me. I didn't realize or care about the precarious possibilities of my actions until after I'd been forcefully pulled from the situation, but even then all I cared about was finding the asshole and rashly decking him in the face without hesitation or consideration of any consequences. The little blue mask Bob had made out of a pillow for the masquerade ball, which we had come to love, was snatched from his head by an angry black man that assumed that the baby blue color and the cute points out from both sides of his head was a direct reference to the KKK, and was therefore a threat to him. He haphazardly started a scene and caused an unnecessary fuss over property I refused to let him snatch with such unfair and irrational reasoning. So in my attempt to get it back from him, he reached far into his thick body and pulled out as much attitude as he could possibly muster, not listening to me and turning his back to me like I was just a worthless little white chick that had it all and used it all against him. The reverse racism drove me absolutely mad and suddenly I found myself more infuriated than I think I've ever been in my life. I dove into the argument with more rage than ever before, and I became so passionate in my hate for people like him that eventually I had to be pulled away for my own safety and let him walk away with something that had sentimental value to me and absolutely no relevance to him.
I went home irritated with the majority of the population of the world and wondering if that high of a percentage of it was really that stupid, selfish, empty, and useless. I didn't have any desire to try for them anymore. It seemed that now I knew who my real friends were, who I could trust, and who was even worth it in the end, because those were the people I could see so clearly marching beside me, laughing and enjoying with all their power what I had brought and made for them. To all those that came, marched, and got zombified, mind and body, I couldn't thank them enough for following through and making Zombie March everything it could be. To everyone else, well, the only thing I could look forward to was that even though they hadn't come out of the graves as their zombified selves to celebrate their make-believe deaths, they would all eventually die in reality and hopefully Darwinism would kill them off and leave the world with a greater percentage of quality personalities and minds. Hopefully I'll know it by then, even if I'm fifty by the time, that it'll be worth it to go out of my way to bring people happiness and entertainment, because efforts will go recognized and appreciated, promises will not be broken, and fun and adventure will be sought and loved. That, my friends, is when Zombie March Round 3 will bless the city of San Francisco again.