Free Tamberlin's Account by Jaime Munt Page A

would be too soon.
    Nov 28 7:09am
    It's been hard to find a good place to sit and write a little. I'd run into some bad weather—as if I just turned down the wrong road.
    Freezing rain put about 1/4 an inch of crystal clear Unmanageable on everything.
    Okay, I had to look back; I forgot what I'd last wrote you. Wrote me?
    So you already know my car wouldn't start—even when I got it some gas. Of course, I can't hotwire cars. So we've obviously been walking since then.
    It hasn't been great because of the barking, but at least he doesn't seem to do it if they aren't close to us—like outside of 500 feet.
    I wish I had better shoes. Well—there are a lot of things that I'd have if I could.
    Right now my heart's with a baked potato with real butter and a sprinkle of pepper, a rare steak smothered in mushrooms, caramelized onions, and a bowl of vanilla ice-cream with pineapples on top and on the side. And a beer that's so chilled it has frost on it.
    In some ways travelling on foot is great, but I yearn to go faster. I feel like I'm late to be somewhere or maybe I feel urgent to get somewhere and make it mine.
    I've decided if I can make it halfway south I will have the best chance to make a go of it. I need to avoid "real" winters.
    I think I stand a good chance of being able to squirrel away some seeds since all this started around the beginning of June.
    Maybe it didn't for other people.
    Who knows what other people were told was happening. I guess the real question is when it became real for each of us.
    I'm sitting at someone's kitchen table. I did some significant damage breaking in—so I can't stay long. I needed to rest and needed a chance to sort out my thoughts.
    I talk to myself and Mr. Ages too much—so much that I worry. I don't know anything about psychology, but I find myself muttering about what I'm doing when I don't have any reason to talk.
    When I don't talk I'm stuck in here where all this writing comes from.
    I worry about when I tremble like I'm cold—and I'm not.

Blood sugar?
    Are my nerves giving out? My sanity?
    Am I lucid enough to know if something’s wrong? Can you worry so much about going crazy that you do?
    Am I a boiler that needs to vent and won't? What do I vent? How?
    Sometimes I feel like I'm going to break down. I'll think I'm fine—I'm not thinking about anything at all and then I can barely walk and then I can't breathe and I'm somewhere between sobbing and puking.
    And I lose time. I lose miles. My mind leaves me on auto pilot.
    Every time I regain control, Mr. Ages is standing there, against me. Worrying –I don't imagine that he worries.
    And he gets sad.
    He gets sleepy. He can be playful—sometimes he's so nuts it’s like a caffeine crab has clamped on his ass.
    He's feeling this, just like me.
    He's lost just as much as us—everything he knew. And, like me, he probably doesn't know what happened to whoever he loved.
    On the bright side—I'm living it up.
    Do you know how long Slim Fast stays fresh? A long time. And it doesn't need refrigeration.
    There are four cases in the pantry and two bottles in the fridge. 34 bottles.
    I also got a bunch of vitamins and I'm boiling water on the barbeque out front to make noodles. Macaroni and cheese if the powder packet is still good—I'm gonna eat it no matter, but I thought I checked it.
    I have three more boxes of that and some oatmeal.
    The couple that lived here must have planned to wait it out. They had it barricaded pretty well. There are public notice fliers for going to the nearest “Relief Station”. But I can't imagine that they'd leave this for some unknown. I wonder what happened to them. Janice and Mickey Wright. They have a lot of pictures on their walls.
    They are probably in their 50's. They look like nice people. Stuffing my face with their food—I can’t help but like them. No pictures of children, but a lot of cats. I haven't seen any, but Mr. Ages will eat well on their food.
    I can't stay because of what I